


Through Troubled Waters

by Aibhilin



Category: One Piece
Genre: Abused Buggy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Assisted Suicide, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Character Death Ahead, Canonical Character Death with a Twist, Competent!Buggy, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Execution, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I took canon and had a go at it with a screwdriver, I'm not doing them just to redo canon, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's a Time Travel story peeps, OP's marines are stupid, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Possible Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, Time Travelling Buggy, Unreliable Narrator, and make bad life choices, but I'd rather warn you about these now, damn this took a dark turn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aibhilin/pseuds/Aibhilin
Summary: His shoulders tense as the plateau of the platform enters his line of sight.Only three more steps remain in-between the group and their goal.Not all that much time left of his average little life.Two more, Admirals awaiting him.One.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Buggy
Comments: 101
Kudos: 225





	1. The Unforgiven

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Watashitachi wa Roger kaizoku desu (we still stand proud)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884211) by [stereden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereden/pseuds/stereden). 



> Sooooooooooo... this is my Buggy Time Travel AU story which I blame partly on my own plotbunnies for bringing up Time Travel with Buggy and largely on the two-hour-long discussion with [Turtletails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtletails) and [Dragowolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragowolf/pseuds/Dragowolf) that followed XD  
> Also, a big thank you goes to [stereden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereden/pseuds/stereden), for inspiring me to write Buggy, of all characters, and for letting me use a few of her ideas!
> 
> Thanks a lot, y'all! :D for giving me yet another WIP to work on... and thanks a lot, brain, for taking it up despite knowing how many I've already got going these days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buggy is led to his execution. Everything's prepared. The Admirals are ready.  
> And then something goes wrong, as it always does in these situations.

_Do not go gentle into that good night  
_ _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

~Dylan Thomas in his poem "Do not go gentle into that good night"

* * *

His chest is hollow, empty of feeling as he makes his way, step for step, up the wooden staircase that leads directly to the execution platform.

No smile is on his face, not a rare sight, but certainly a jarring one for those who know him. Instead, his mouth is drawn downwards, his eyes staring at the stairs directly ahead of him.

His body is shaking slightly, making him put effort into staying on track and the way up the staircase longer than it should have been.

Marine guards are accompanying him, two in front, two at his back. He doesn’t want to look at the eerie white of their uniforms, so his gaze is at their feet. The standard black shoes don’t look out of shape at all, unlike his own. They’ve substituted his preferred outrageously long shoes with thin black slippers that wrapped around his feet uncomfortably, making them ache more with every step.

Right, left.

Right, left.

Steady, now.

The seastone chains across his wrists chafe against his skin. By now, he's gotten used to the steady drain of it, though it was by far one of his least pleasant experiences while in the hands of the marines. They’ve tied his hands behind his back for the trek up the platform. They're clenched tightly together, knuckles white.

Calm, now.

He knows what is going on.

It is all a show and he is the one on display.

A breath stutters briefly in his chest at the thought, before he soldiers on.

This is his area of expertise, after all. Wouldn’t do to let them see exactly how much this whole deal is affecting him. Closing his eyes will be out, as well, until he is where they want him to be: kneeling on top of the platform.

Like so many others have done before him.

_Like Portgas D Ace did at Marineford._

_~~Like Gol D Roger did in Logue Town.~~ _

And today Buggy does so at G-7.

They bore it better than him.

They bore it smiling.

But Buggy is no D.

Buggy won’t go out smiling, doesn’t even want to, isn’t ready to die yet.

No, he hasn’t known that the marines can be counted on to shoot a Shichibukai in the back, hasn’t considered that happening, the last time he’s been summoned.

That has proved to be his undoing, that one time where he's thought it's nothing more than another summoning of the Shichibukai.

Oh, it isn’t like he hasn’t used them, first. He’s accepted the Shichibukai status only because it would practically guarantee that the marines won’t harm his crew ~~who isn’t ready for the Grand Line, isn’t ready to take on the New World at all _and isn’t even ready for Paradise yet_~~.

But he is a pirate. It is almost expected that they’d stab you in the back once they have enough and don't need you any more.

Ah, he’s been had, hasn’t he? He’s fallen into the trap of believing the marines to be better than they are, like so many others before him.

Not all of the marines are bad, however there are enough of the bad guys in there to rot the whole institution from the inside.

You don’t pay attention to the amount of upstanding, honourable marines who entered because they want to help people, when you have to pay attention to those who won’t. Who’d rather see people suffer, instead. Or those who are too idealistic to see their actions harm and kill innocent people.

Buggy’s revolted shudder is lost under his continuous trembling.

His eyes glaze over, staring blankly at the wooden stairs.

One more. Then one more. Then the next.

They seem to go on for eternity.

In his mind’s eye, he sees himself back where they’ve brought him whenever he’s gotten to leave his cell. Flung into a chair, sometimes against a wall, chained up and uselessly helpless, they’ve ceaselessly grilled him for answers he couldn’t give and some he wouldn’t want to even if he had them.

A lot of them had to do with Roger and Laugh Tale and the Rio Poneglyphs.

Others included the Void Century, and most of the rest focused on Shanks and Buggy's relation to the ex-Yonko.

He wonders if they’ve thought up another name to call the most powerful when it is clear that Yonko isn't applicable as a label any longer. Idly, he thinks to himself that he should try calling them Monsters up on his execution platform, see if it catches on.

Buggy will occupy the best position from where one’s words will be heard, soon.

( _He resolutely ignores the fact that it is looming just ahead of the throng_ )

( _Buggy's not yet willing to entertain the thought of what will happen to him once there_ )

( _And why is it that the last words of someone weigh more than any others?_ )

His shoulders tense as the plateau of the platform enters his line of sight.

Only three more steps remain in-between the group and their goal.

Not all that much time left of his average little life.

Two more, Admirals awaiting him.

One.

The foot that settles on the place of his execution feels heavy and the knot in his throat grows bigger.

His right foot joins his left and his body senses the kind of finality that is implied by the action. He's anxious, now.

The breaths stutter into and out of him in irregular intervals by now and his eyes are still downcast and watching the floor more than his present company.

Someone nudges his back to go on, get into position already, at all their collective feet.

Mechanically, he does.

No witty lines come to mind.

No incredibly cheesy final words.

Silence permeates the air around him.

His ears are ringing. His eyes stare blankly at nothing in particular, refuse to accept the situation as it is. His body is shaking quite noticeably, now. His thoughts swirl around inside his head, his focus shot to all hell.

It feels almost as if he's meditating, kneeling there on that execution platform that is made for his own execution. Idly, he refuses to process any of the ongoings around him, losing himself in his own head for an indeterminable amount of time.

No, Boke no Buggy really has no idea how much time passes until he is finally brought out of his head by Sakazuki’s voice booming to his right. The Fleet Commander himself stands there, shouting at his men and narrowing his eyes. Buggy doesn’t dare look up at the massive man, doesn’t want to attract needlessly more attention, _doesn’t want to make him snap and kill Buggy on impulse_.

That is all it takes for the kind of man that he is, the pirate captain thinks to himself silently. One wrong move and he’ll have a bullet through his head faster than he can say his own name.

Instead, he looks at the wood beneath his feet, the minor movements his feet keep making on autopilot, adjusting his stance and his legs so the position remains relatively bearable.

He swallows. Sweat beads on his forehead and he can’t wipe it away. His hands are clenched tightly together, have been ever since he’d walked through that first door that led outside in what he thinks is a month’s time spent inside.

His crew will be safe, probably. Hopefully. Shanks will honour his wish to keep them safe, at least, for all the good that _that_ does. The red-haired captain is almost as big of a trouble magnet as his protégé is. Admittedly, he also gets himself _out_ of all the trouble he gets himself _into_ , so there is that.

They’ll be safe, Mohji, Cabbaji, Richie and the others. He will have to trust in that.

The questions he was asked hadn’t been about them at all.

Even without him, on their own, they will be fine.

 ~~He ignores the voice at the back of his head that tells him they’ll be even safer now that he’ll be a goner soon~~.

The people that are positioned around him project their hatred, their scorn, their cruelty for all to see. Buggy curls into himself as best he can, shielding his body, his mind, _his soul_ from the vengeful Haki that poisons the air all around him and holds his Observation Haki close to his chest, quite literally forcing it to cover the smallest possible radius directly around his body, as he's tried to do ever since he's left his cell that morning.

There’s only two places that don’t possess anything malicious at all in his direct proximity on that platform.

One’s slightly more to the right, a little behind him, where there’s something weird.

Buggy can’t overtly look behind him for fear of attracting Sakazuki’s gaze, but he can let his eyes flicker in its direction to see a bit more of his surroundings.

It is a strange aura with a tinge of despair, although, paradoxically, a very slight sprinkling of calm and wary acceptance can be made out as well. His legs start to cramp a bit, before he manages to relax them consciously by shifting a little.

And then there is the weirdly humming machine to the right of the execution platform, it stood on a leg on a pedestal attached to it. The noise and the metallic shine of it give him goosebumps.

What does Sakazuki have in mind with this?

He doesn’t want a death by bullet.

But he doesn’t want to die because he is killed by a strange new machine the marines have cooked up, either.

 _ ~~Boke no Buggy doesn’t want to die at all, but his opinion doesn’t count here, has never counted where it is relevant and he’s by far not new to this disregard thrown at him by strangers who think they know him better than he does himself~~_.

They are deranged monsters, the lot of them. All of the ones gathered here, at least. It reminds him too much of Marineford and of Logue Town, the willingness to massacre people for power and execute them for their relation to legends that are long dead. He can forgive himself for blanking out a bit.

When next he is made aware of something important going on, the action has already started and he has to reprimand himself to _pay attention!_ He very much does not want to be killed by a random bullet hitting him – and is promptly dragged out of the way of one that whizzes past him by the scruff of his neck by… Garp? It’s Mugiwara’s old man he glimpses when he turns his head a little.

What is Vice Admiral Garp doing here? Hasn’t he been sacked, last Buggy has heard?

Also, that random bullet definitely came from down on what has by now become a battlefield. That had been friendly fire that wanted to bring him out of the game. And Buggy hasn’t realised before just how many enemies on the pirate-y side he’s made until he’s made very much aware of them.

His hackles rise, his shoulders and whole body even tenser now that he’s sure he could be killed by either side. The marines’ is insofar the better one to bet his (measurably short) life on as that they want to make a show of doing it.

A stray bullet? Not gonna be enough for them, no.

It may not even have been on purpose.

That doesn’t matter, though.

His ears are still ringing as he forcefully keeps his natural Observation Haki even more tightly controlled and surrounding only himself and his own body like he should have been doing from the start of this clusterfuck, with a flicker roaming over the hand at the scruff of his neck, Buggy almost clutching at the sensation of it as a sort of lifeline.

Buggy doesn’t quite realise what’s going on down on the battlefield in front of the platform, doesn’t quite notice, isn’t quite _all there_ to notice, frankly, the control of his Haki taking its toll on his already abused body and mind and his eyes out of focus more often than not.

Next thing he knows, the hand on his neck retreats – is shoved forcefully off of him, in fact, – and _Shanks_ is there, right in front of him for the blink of an eye, all desperate and worried and _shouting_ , before Buggy gets thrown sideways and hits the machine straight on, his body crumbling to a heap at its side on the pedestal.

He barely sees Shanks fight against an Admiral ( _Kizaru?_ ) on the platform, his brain going fuzzy for another moment.

The scene he is graced with next is one out of his nightmares, for Shanks is suddenly kneeling at the spot where he has been what feels a lifetime ago, and Kizaru is standing in front of him and a beam will be all it takes-

Fortunately, his eyes go unfocussed for a bit there, his Haki taking more of his concentration than he can afford to give his vision for but a moment, wherein he loses track of the shapes in front of him, them turning to blobs and Shanks is all of a sudden gone and **_where is-_**

A controlled burst of Haki is let out in his desperate bid to find his brother-in-all-but-blood, before he can reign it in and he can’t help but be relieved when it immediately latches onto Shanks, finding the familiar aura nearby, albeit taking note of the heavily wounded state of the other, as well.

Concentrating on Shanks' status helps him remain aware for the time being, so he takes it.

Heavily wounded.

What leads to death within minutes for a normal person cannot be contained within the stubbornness personified that is Shanks. Nonetheless, that doesn't negate that he needs medical attention, and fast.

That is all he gleans before he needs to snap his Haki back to surround only himself, not able to multitask any longer with an exponentially growing headache vying for his attention.

The strange thing from before that's now behind him wasn’t this close before, but he can’t move from where he is, still keeping the barest grapple on his Haki, clinging onto it by a thread – because he knows that if he slips, if he lets go, for even one second, one instant, he’ll be down and out of it due to the backlash of feeling everything that’s happening there at once and might not even notice if it gets himself killed by whomever stands the closest.

This was the only reason he could later recall for why he doesn’t react when he clearly feels the air shift around him, something approaching, something big and clumsy and stumbling towards him from that strange aura’s direction behind him and then he feels a hand that is twice his torso’s size hit him against the machine again and he can’t hold it in any longer and-

The moment that he releases his grip on his Haki is liberating and stressful, for all he can sense around himself is… a few presences, here and there sprinkled in the darkness suddenly surrounding him, curious ones and fearful ones alike, cold coming from the floor he is lying on and warmth, unnatural warmth springing forth from the steadily reddening stupid _machine that is still besides him and growing hotter by the moment and_ -

Bee-yoom.

It hurt so much, it hurt _it hurt_ **_it hurt_** **MAKE IT STOP**-

Blessed darkness encompassed his senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit ~~22.04.2020~~ 07.05.2020: Put in a _different_ quote for this chapter ~~, as well, and added a chapter summary~~.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> Leave a comment if you're in the mood for it, will you? Cheers!


	2. The Everymen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Drum live in interesting times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My OCs have taken over this chapter. Sorry, folks ^_^' You'll see more of Buggy again in the next one~ but seeing as he _is_ unconscious in this one...

_I guess we all like to be recognized not for one piece of fireworks, but for the ledger of our daily work._

~Neil Armstrong

* * *

It is dark already and the white snow that’s reflecting the moonlight only barely helps, for it is not a full moon that night. The lamps they carry with them don’t shine too far, so the boy generally sticks close to the group.

The firewood they gathered will help fuel the fires for at least another week before they’ll have to move out to get more. The boy was lucky enough to spot a particularly sturdy tree, one that would be easy to fell and carry, at the end of their gathering and the men agreed that felling one more couldn’t hurt.

Unfortunately, by the time they were done with hacking the tree up into moveable pieces and loaded it onto the carriage and fastened it with ropes to the others, the sun started to go down already.

Thus, they are currently trekking through a forest that is bathed in darkness, their feet crunching the snow underneath.

The men are keeping a wary eye out. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that wild lapins attacked a group of firewood gatherers. Yet, nothing happens and for the first half of the way back down to Bighorn, they are left unharmed.

Unexpectedly peaceful as the atmosphere seems, even the boy dares venture a little farther away from the group every ten minutes or so, and has fun exploring the forest around the path they are treading on, always within eyesight, as he’s promised his father, and carefully listening to any strange noises he can make out.

At around the halfway point to the town, all of a sudden a loud boom shakes the area.

Goosebumps rise on the boy’s arms and he can feel how a tremor goes through his body, starting from his toes. In alarm, he jumps up from where he’s crouched besides a small bush and quickly runs back to the carriage, coming to a halt between the men, turning once he is there and watching to see if anything more dangerous happens.

In response to the boom, every single one of the men stands at attention immediately and they stop the carriage, some pulling out the weapons they’ve brought on the hunt for firewood, already anticipating lapins jumping out at them from the bushes and underwood nearby.

In silence, they scrutinise the area around them, everyone focused on another area, not leaving a corner unobserved.

Nothing happens.

For several breathless seconds, no one hears or sees anything out of the ordinary.

On high alert, the foreman signals for them to move again, albeit much slower than before.

“What was that?” one whispers to the others.

“We’ll see.” comes the useless answer from the foreman. The boy grits his teeth.

They know the way like the back of their hands by now, could probably find it blind, but that doesn’t mean they’d risk their lamps going out or lapins attacking and sidetracking them. The weapons stay out and ready in their hands.

The next twenty minutes pass in silence and much slower than the twenty that came before. Every little bit of noise, every hushed whisper has everyone straining to listen and look for any sign of danger approaching the group.

His shoulders are bunched up, tense and tightly wrung like most of his body. The boy makes sure to consciously keep his knees loose and lightly bent at all times, so he can jump out of the way in the case of an attack or break into a run at a moment’s notice. He’s always been the fastest of all the kids his age in Bighorn, and with reason.

His position is almost at the head of the group, in third spot after the foreman, directly behind a little bit to the right of his father, on the right-hand side of the carriage. The men are surrounding their precious cargo from all sides.

Wouldn’t do to lose it now that they’ve spent all day gathering it.

It is because of their state of alertness that the boy then sees something in the snow, just a few feet to the side of the road ahead of the carriage. The weird shape is sticking out of a snow heap and a little bit hidden underneath a bush looming over it. Conscious of their situation, he grabs his father’s jacket and pulls a little bit at it to get his attention.

“Father, what is that?” he murmurs once he has it. All of the men hear him and stop the trek, once more.

“What is what, son?” his father asks.

“That!” his voice grows a little louder as he points.

“I can’t see anything.” he hears his father’s friend whisper to himself from behind.

The shape hasn’t moved, not even a little bit. By now, the boy is sure that it isn’t a lapin. Lapins aren’t that bright, they don’t lay traps for people. His father and the foreman are discussing what to do, reassured that one of the others is keeping an eye at the front of their group to see if anything dangerous is approaching them.

A bit impatient, the boy decides to risk it. His father is carrying a rifle with him and this simple fact is enough to calm his nerves as he goes for it and, as quietly as he can, makes his way over to the snow heap.

No one notices him leave the safety of their numbers at first.

Only once he’s close enough to see it – grass? In the snow? Is that a flower? – and wants to pluck it does he hear his father’s voice. His father is saying, in a calm tone of voice that is still rather loud in the silence of the early night, “Dalton! Come back here!”

Reluctantly, Dalton replies, “Yes, father.”, absentmindedly pulling at what he thinks is the stem of the flower. What strikes him is that the flower’s stem feels rather silky in his hand.

A resistance to his incessant tugging makes him remark on the weirdness, “Huh? What’s this?”

He gives it one more pull before he’d leave it. Tugging on it again, a bit of snow falls off and the boy’s heart almost stops at what he finds there, buried underneath that heap of snow.

When he finds his voice, he lets go of the blue string-grass-weed thing immediately.

“Waaaah!” he screams, falling back on his butt in the snow and propelling himself backwards away from it as fast as he can with his hands.

His father is at his side in seconds, the feet of the foreman blocking his line of sight. The boy sighs in relief of not having to see _that thing_ any longer and he can finally work on calming down his breathing and heartrate.

“Dalton? What’s the matter?” he is asked.

All that comes out, however, is, “Father! That’s, there’s- a- a- a- head!!!” He shudders again at what he’s seen in that snow heap.

His father replies, “A head?”

At that, the boy nods vigorously, his brain kicking into gear to work on the mystery, “In the snow! I think- I think there’s someone stuck under there!”

Ever the calming presence, Dalton’s father only replies, “What? Let me see!” In response, the other men step aside to let him through, the foreman already working on getting the body freed.

As his second, Dalton’s father isn’t far behind the ladder of command and orders, “Avi! Go get the Doctor Zuma! There’s a body under this heap of snow! Tevol, help us shovel!”

The one from behind them takes his weapon and hurries back to Bighorn, taking another with him for safety reasons – one can’t ever be too paranoid when dealing with lapins – while three of the men make quick work of freeing the stranger from the snow.

One of them helps Dalton to his feet, standing besides him, protectively keeping an eye out for other dangers in the dark about to attack the group.

And indeed, it is a man that is buried underneath the snow.

Once freed, they ascertain that he is still alive – he’s still breathing, so there’s that, at least – and heave him onto a spot on the carriage where he can lie mostly comfortably, propped a little bit up against one of the trees that has a slight curve to it.

None of them have missed the fact that the stranger is handcuffed.

Together, they hurry to get to the town as soon as possible, dreading anything more – anything worse than an unconscious, handcuffed stranger – hiding in the snow.

* * *

Bighorn is not a big town. This is made very apparent by the way that rumours spread like wildfire.

However new the appearance of the stranger is to the townspeople, the anticipated birth of their country’s princeling still trumps its juicy gossip-bits by far.

“Ne, have you heard, Prince Wapol will be born soon!” a woman can be heard saying to another, when Dalton is on the way back from his errand.

“Yes, yes, it’s said that the King will throw a huge feast celebrating the occasion. I just hope the Queen is going to be alright, a birth is such a strain on the body…” the other replies. Dalton doesn’t want to listen in on their gossip, doesn’t need to – he knows a lot about this matter, after all it isn’t like a pregnancy lasts for months, oh no – but he can’t help it, just as he can’t help reacting when they address him directly.

“Ah, Dalton! You’re back already? That means my husband’s back as well, I better go see if he wants something to eat…” Right, that is his father’s friend’s wife, isn’t it? Aunt Jel. Dalton only slows his steps slightly to acknowledge them and nods in an affirmative.

“See you another time, then.” The other woman – the baker’s wife – says.

“Yes, bye!” the boy hears before he’s gone, leaving them behind in his quest to get home again.

* * *

When he opens the door, he only just hears the tail ends of Doctor Zuma’s sentence, “…is very unusual, indeed.”

Not wanting to get caught listening in on yet another conversation, Dalton reports, “Father! I told the mayor. He should be here any minute now.”

He gets a smile for his effort and a “Well done, son.” that makes him warm from the inside.

Then, Kendal glances outside worriedly, before he asks rhetorically, “There’s another snow storm coming, eh?”

Doctor Zuma looks at him from over his halfmoon glasses and nods, “Yes.”

However warm his reception is, Dalton is a little disappointed when his father tells him, “I suppose it’s better if you stay inside then, son.” and sighs. It isn’t like Dalton’s useless, after all. He doesn’t know what the stranger’s deal is, but he doesn’t want to be coddled just because there might be an unknown danger in their house now.

The young boy’s bristling is interrupted by his mother entering the room, “The broth’s finished soon. Thank you, doctor, for coming by this fast.” The doctor nods absentmindedly, as he packs his supplies into his bag again.

Kendal says to his friends, “Avi, Tevol, thanks for helping carry him here. I think it’s best if you stayed here for now, though, just in case.”

They shift a little but nod their assent.

Smiling, June says, “It’s good that I used the big pot. We’ll have enough food to go around for today.”

The two friends replied at the same time,

“We’ll invite you over soon-”

“I’m sorry to impose-”

And are left staring at each other in befuddled surprise for a moment, making Dalton chuckle a little and brightening his father’s features with a smile.

“That’ll be alright, then.” he says and that is that.

* * *

In a quiet moment, after they’ve eaten and the guests are set up with sleeping bags at the side of the main room, Dalton dares pull his father aside and ask, “Father… who is that?”

For clarification, he nods towards the room.

“We don’t know. Yet.” Kendal smiles at Dalton to reassure him, not fooling the boy in the least, and goes on to say, “Don’t worry, son, we’ll find out soon.”

* * *

An hour later, the mayor finally joins them in their house. None of them are particularly surprised about the man’s tardiness, although he is good at the job in all other aspects that matter.

“Kendal! What is it? Your son only said it was urgent.” he opens with.

A practical man, Kendal simply guides him to their guestroom and says, “This way.”

The mayor stops in the doorway to the guestroom. In a brisk manner, knowing that he’ll be answered immediately, mayor Tondel asks, “Who is this?”

“We don’t know. What we do know is that he is wearing seastone handcuffs.”

Avi pipes up from the sidelines, “Could be a runaway prisoner.”

The mayor’s lack of an answer tells Dalton that he’s contemplating the matter and giving it the amount of thought it deserves, before deciding on a plan of action.

“Kendal, you work for the king, don’t you? I think it would be best he be made aware of this.”

This time, it’s Dalton’s mother who points out, “At such a time?”

The mayor lets a brief pause follow, before he continues to say, “I know everyone is anxious about the birth, but if the prisoner is important, the king will need to be informed.”

Dalton’s father answers, “I understand.”

Mayor Tondel is all business, ordering, “Avi, Tevol. Can I count on you to guard him for the time being?”

Frankly, their simultaneous “Yes sir!” is expected by everyone.

* * *

It is decided that Kendal will leave in the morning, as soon as dawn is upon them, to make it to the ropeway and the castle as soon as possible. His father’s position as a guard at the royal court makes it such that he can’t be home for a lot of the time, so his brief stays in Bighorn whenever there’s a temporary layoff always are celebrated as a happy occasion and their small family makes sure to spend the time together best they can.

Daytime journeys can be undertaken by a single person – lapins are mainly known to attack at night, when humans prove easy prey due to their inability to see very well in the dark – as long as one uses the ways that they know lapins steer clear from for whatever inane reason unknown to them.

That doesn’t mean that the heartfelt goodbyes exchanged between his parents are an easy thing to witness, nonetheless.

“I’ll be back soon, love.” His father’s baritone never fails to calm him down. “Dalton, take care of your mother.”

The young boy nods an affirmative. “Yes, father.”

June simply says, “Come back soon.” and kisses him goodbye, Dalton looking to the side at the gesture. Gross.

His eyes remain on his father’s strong back for as long as it takes for it to disappear in the forest. Only then does he turn back to head into the house again together with his mother, helping her where he can to make his father’s absence easier on her.

* * *

Time passes. The guards are exchanged – Avi and Tevol heading to their homes and leaving others to guard the “prisoner”. Meanwhile, the light snowstorm his father has mentioned has grown in size. While unexpected, this happens every now and again. By midday, they are advised against going outside and the next guard that arrives is one decked out in multiple layers of heavy, warm clothing to fend off the cold and the wind.

On Drum, snowstorms of all sizes are a common occurrence and the citizens are prepared to sit them out. However, travelling is out of the question during such a natural phenomenon – no one has a carriage strong enough to withstand the elements and no one dares venture out, for losing one’s way is oftentimes an all-too-easy trap to fall into, and a fatal one at that.

It’s a fact: Dalton’s father won’t be able to come back home anytime soon.

~~Dalton ignores the voice chanting at the back of his head that he mightn’t have made it up the ropeway before the storm hit.~~

* * *

In the meantime, their “prisoner” has developed a fever and is known to murmur nonsensical things to himself at times. To the young boy, it is eerie, although he’s grown quite interested in the blue-haired man by now. It is clear that the stranger isn’t a threat, for all that people are appointed to guard him by the mayor.

During some guard exchanges, the boy is left in charge for a minute or two and alone in the room with him. The body on the bed looks ill, small and weak in the dim light of the main room that filters in through the door.

“Who are you?”

Looking at his emaciated form, Dalton’s sole question is left unanswered.

“I didn’t know people could have blue hair.” he muses to himself in lieu of another person’s voice replying, before his mother brings in a lightly wet towel with which they can wipe off the sweat from the stranger’s forehead. They take care of the stranger as best as they can.

* * *

Three days later, the snowstorm lets up. Finally, the young boy is allowed outside again – and the man who kept up the guard on the stranger’s sickbed (one doesn’t need two guards when one proves enough and guarding a sick man is, even if they are on the Grand Line, sufficiently done by one alone, they found out quickly) during the night can for once go outside not smothered by all the different layers he’s had to put on to do so without being blown away or freezing to death within minutes.

The next guard soon comes and knocks on their door. Dalton bids him enter, before he slithers out through the door, off on an errand for his mother.

The voices of the townspeople who’ve gone outside to enjoy the reprieve from the storm wash over him. One dialogue in particular he picks up as he is standing in line at the bakery.

“Have you heard? There’s been an avalanche!”

“Where?”

“On the road that leads to Robelle! Apparently, old Lady Lyra got caught in it.”

“What did she have to go out in a snowstorm, stubborn old witch.” A beer keg is brought to the mouth of the speaker, before he swallows and shakes his head, clearly exasperated. “Betcha she survived that one, as well?”

“Not gonna bet on that, when I know she did. Shall we go dig her out?”

“… I’ll help if you don’t tell her I called her a witch.”

“Deal.”

Done with the errand, Dalton makes his way back, making a mental note to remind himself to tell his mother about what he’d heard. Old Lady Lyra is a family friend, after all. His mother would appreciate being informed about her troubles.

* * *

After informing his mother, he goes into the guestroom, bringing today’s guard, Avi, a mug of tea to drink. He huffs, then thanks him, letting the boy keep him company standing at the bedside for a while.

Then he sits down in the chair besides the bed, taking up his position again silently but determinedly.

They all think the same: a guard for a sick man on the verge of death? That’s just useless. Hopefully, Dalton’s father will bring information about what to do with him.

* * *

At lunchtime, Tevol knocks on their door and tells them, “The way to Robelle is snowed in, apparently there’s been an avalanche!”

“Yes, we heard.” Avi countered.

“Mayor says all men are needed to dig out anyone who’s buried under the avalanche.”

Avi’s raised eyebrow is ignored. Instead, Tevol emphasises, “ _All_ men. Come on.” Impatient, he gestures for Avi to join him, leaving the house and running out ahead.

His father’s friend hesitates shortly, before he sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “Might as well.” He nods towards the guestroom and its inhabitant sharply, once, addressing June, “He’s not gonna wake up anytime soon. Should anything happen, send out Dalton to find us.” Rhetorically, he adds on, “You can defend yourself?”

“Me? What do you think?” June counters, raising a pan threateningly at her childhood friend, and Avi’s shoulders relax. The conversation is more to reassure him than for her benefit, Dalton thinks to himself. The boy resolves to keep an eye on their houseguest and not to leave him out of his sight.

“There’s also the festivities to prepare for. Everyone’s needed for that, in the event that everything goes well. I’ll check in whenever possible, but I’ll go and help with those, too, okay?”

“Okay.” His mother says. Addressing Dalton, he tacks on, “Take care of your mom, alright, kiddo?” and Dalton nods.

Closing the door behind himself, Avi leaves the two to rearrange duties.

The day is calm, for once, no wind howling on the other side of the house’s walls, the windows showing the whiteness surrounding them and a brightness filling every room of their house. No snowstorm is in sight, no freezing coldness is coming in through any cracks in the wooden houses.

Dalton’s mother prepares some towels to wash the sweat off the blue-haired person’s forehead and Dalton helps where he can. They made sure to turn the stranger over every few hours or so. The handcuffs are still wrapped tightly around his wrists, pulling his arms behind his back, so they can only move him around via the front.

“At least the fever has broken”, his mother remarks quietly.

Under their ministrations, the stranger slept on.

* * *

The next day, the anxiousness in the air can be felt by everyone.

“The Queen is in labour.” is the general message that is spread throughout the town in the morning. Dalton’s father is probably needed near the king in these trying times: as one of the king’s most trusted, he can be relied upon to calm their kind king down whenever it is needed.

And then, close to lunchtime, the princeling’s birth is announced and the cheers can be heard through the walls. A feast is prepared, the townhall busily filling with food and drinks and people alike.

In the young boy’s household, however, not a lot has changed. Dalton’s mother has gone outside to take some broth to the townhall, leaving the young boy alone with their houseguest.

The festivities are most probably in full swing by now, adults drinking and dancing a lot. Dalton can imagine it vividly. Such a tremendous occasion, and he’s guarding a stranger. His desire to go celebrate with the others is great, but his sense of duty is greater for now. Plus, his mother has promised him he can go out and have fun with the other townspeople later on, once she’s back home, anyways. The young boy has heard Avi talk about fireworks that’ll be lit up later on.

He can’t wait to see them.

Just then, something unexpected happens.

Outside, a loud boom can be heard – and Dalton quickly walks over to the window to ascertain that, yes, that had been a firework that now lights up in broad daylight overhead. The colours are nice to look at, really, but it would have been better if they’d waited until the evening.

Dalton pouts. Why didn’t they wait until he is there?

And then he notices a noise coming from somewhere behind him. Turning around, he is surprised at what he finds.

* * *

It is not a normal boom from a canon, yet it has his ears ringing nonetheless, when he comes to. Or is that still from that strange byoooom sound before everything grew dark?

In any case, it has him try to sit up and curl in on himself within seconds, hands trying to go around his head and whimpering in fright when he feels the handcuffs, feels the drain of the seastone, his heart beating like there is no tomorrow. Instead, he only manages to land on his side, his hands pulled backwards and his feet trapped by something.

Disoriented, he can’t even bring himself to move any further, at first. He grunts in confusion at the softness underneath him. His feet were – his feet are bare? And is that… blankets they are tangled up in?

Sobs make their way up his throat without his permission, hiccupping out of him in irregular intervals. Tears float down his cheeks. Unbidden, the horror that was his mock-up of an execution comes back at him, swamping him all at once with images he’d rather forget, thank you very much.

But no, that is definitely not an option, that has never been an option for Buggy the Clown, has it?

Buggy has never had a choice in what he got to experience, why should it be different, now?

Feeling arms wrap around him, helping him to sit up, he starts crying in earnest.

Oh, someone is hugging him. Who is that? It's nice.

He’d like to keep feeling this, please and thank you.

What feels like hours filled with crying later, he is exhausted. His body relents and, despite the constant booms sounding muffled and a little farther away, he feels safe and, letting his head drop heavily against the weirdly small shoulder he’d cried on, he falls asleep, again.

* * *

“Boke no Buggy!” The Admiral’s voice booms in his ears. “You will be executed today!”

As if he doesn’t know that already. Kneeling on the platform of the scaffold, he is helpless to do more than stare at what transpires in front of him.

Did Portags D Ace feel this way, looking out over the battlefield? What if Mugiwara comes to Buggy’s rescue, as well? Huffing a depreciating laugh to himself, he thinks, yeah, right. As if. Buggy thinks they’ll start calling Mugiwara the next “Pirate King” soon, if they don’t do it already, but he hasn’t heard anything new about the Strawhats since they caught him about a month ago.

All the Shichibukai have gathered around the execution platform and oh, Buggy is oh-so-wary of that Darkness monster who hasn’t shown up. Why hasn’t he shown up yet? An ominous dread spreads in his stomach at the thought of Blackbeard stealing Buggy’s Devil Fruit on top of the others he’s already got. Is it two? Three? Devil Fruit’s powers he could command now? Buggy isn’t sure anymore.

The whole scene feels like Marineford, all over again. Buggy is in chains, seastone, just like Ace. In a mockery of Ace’s death, he’s clad in clothes almost the same as that boy had been in Marineford and oh, isn’t it nice to be compared to a man who died at half his age?

He’s shaking, he hasn’t eaten, he hasn’t been allowed much to drink, his makeup is smeared from all the rough manhandling and the “throw him against a wall to see if the seastone sits tightly enough on his wrists.”

He can barely stand and walk on his own two legs.

He’s not a D, never wanted to be involved with Ds again. Disaster, disarray and dissent follow in their wake.

There’s lots of marine uniforms, lots of white clothing with the word Absolute Justice sprayed all over them. This time, he’s in a prisoner’s clothes, still not his own. They’re white and black, with stripes running down his body. They inspire an irrational fear in him.

He can’t help it – he gets lost in his head, when the images from way back in Marineford overlap with the ones from his own execution. At least like this, he doesn’t have to see them ram their swords into his body.

Pfeh, using Buggy as bait? That isn’t anything new. But this time, Buggy has no idea about whose bait he is supposed to be, really. Who do the marines want to rally in with him on display? He thinks Shanks might come for him. it would be nice to get confirmation on that, that his brother-in-all-but-blood hasn’t abandoned him, too.

Still, he won’t place bets on that happening. It wouldn’t be the first time Shanks doesn’t find out something until it’s too late to do something about it and Buggy doesn’t think he’ll have made front page in the newspaper that the news coos distribute all over the Blues and the Grand Line.

( _“Everyone for themselves, isn’t it, on the seas?” Especially pirates can’t always be counted on to act on their word, no matter how honourable they start out as_ )

And then something shifts and oh, there’s Shanks and Shanks is here _for Buggy_?

And Shanks is injured and might die.

And Buggy only hears a “boom” in the distance.

* * *

He wakes up breathing heavily in and out, lying on his right side on something soft ( _a bed?_ ), legs curling towards him and eyes opened wide, unseeing at first.

The next thing he notices is the collection of auras nearby. And he is confused about the sheer variety of feelings out there – happiness, anxiousness, fear, joy are all warring with each other in his immediate surroundings.

Then, a door in his line of sight opens and his gaze shifts to land on the person entering the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, folks!  
> I'm not quite satisfied with it, but ah well... I might go over it for minor corrections later...
> 
> Leave a comment if you're in the mood for it and have the time, will you? I'm always interested in what people think about my stories~
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! See you next time!!! Cheers!


	3. The Kingpin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buggy wakes up. And is told he has an audience with the king. He gets a few bombshells dropped on him along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became 5k words plus, fast. How? How did this become this big this fast???  
>   
> Dear readers, this one blew up in my face. I've become obsessed with seeing it finished, and soon.  
>   
> Enjoy! :D

_'Tis the set of the sails_

_And not the gales_

_Which tells us the way to go._

~Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Extract from her poem "The Winds of Fate"

* * *

He wakes up breathing heavily in and out, lying on his right side on something soft ( _a bed?_ ), legs curling towards him and eyes opened wide, unseeing at first.

The next thing he notices is the collection of auras nearby. And he is confused about the sheer variety of feelings out there – happiness, anxiousness, fear, joy are all warring with each other in his immediate surroundings. As much as he can, he quickly draws his Observation Haki back to himself so that he can only feel his immediate surroundings. He feels much more rested, thus trusts himself to be able to hold onto it much better ~~than when he was on his way up the platform stairs~~.

Forcefully, he tries to redirect his thoughts to better topics. Then, a door in his line of sight opens and his gaze shifts to land on the person entering the room.

“Ah, you’re awake.” A rumbly voice states.

It is useless to play pretend when it is obvious that he is, indeed, awake. He nods, remaining cautious in the face of an unknown newcomer. The burly man gives a slight huff at the nonverbal answer. Meanwhile, Buggy succeeds in detangling his legs from the blanket and attempts to sit up as best as he can on the bed, figuring out how not to overbalance, with his hands still tied with the handcuffs digging into his wrists at his back, the seastone reminding him of its presence like an ever-hungry shark that is slowly chipping away at his energy. Bit by bit, he feels it drain him.

The man smiles, “You’re in luck.”

Boke no Buggy raises an eyebrow in challenge. He'd like to scoff, but doesn't know if that would somehow affect his host's mood, and, in turn, his situation badly. Him being in luck hasn’t been the case for however long he’s been held by the marines, why should it change now? But he's treading softly, now, figuring out what works, in these new circumstances, so he does and says nothing.

The rumbly voice continues by saying, “Wherever you came from and however you came here, you came here at what could possibly be the best time for someone in your situation.”

It's like walking on eggshells, yet, hesitantly, he tries to ask, “An’ wha-“ His voice is not cooperating and is raspy and rough, and he has to cough twice to get rid of the roughness he can feel has lodged itself in his throat, before soldiering on despite those difficulties, “What time is that?”

In lieu of an answer, the man lightly derails from the main topic, asking “May I sit?” indicating the bed Buggy is resting on with a hand, holding the other out peacefully at his side and showing Buggy his palms openly. Now that he is sitting up, there is enough space left for another person, with some extra left over because Buggy is still not going to simply trust the man and he needs his personal bubble, at least for the time being.

Another cautious nod from Buggy later, Kendal sits down gingerly at the other side of the bed, courteous enough to let Buggy have his breathing space and not mentioning Buggy’s nervousness with another – strange and new – person this close. New persons haven’t so far brought Buggy any relief, and he’s reluctant to put his trust in the temporary peace offering.

The man went on to tell him, “Today a son has been born to our country’s king and queen.”

Eyebrows crunching together, Buggy frowns at the man. What country is he in, anyways? But before he can pose the question, the burly man continues to dump information on him.

“Our King has decreed that prisoners be given lighter sentences this week and that you – who we don’t know anything about – is to be taken care of and given an official audience with the king once you feel up for it.”

With another nod and a hand, he gestures to what both of them know is hidden behind Buggy’s back.

“Those are to be taken off, as well. Our doctors know what a drain they can be to a Devil Fruit user. I can’t imagine they’re comfortable.”

Buggy snorts despite himself, shaking his head. No, seastone cuffs aren’t a coveted luxury item, for all that they are expensive and rare as hell to get a hold of.

In general, though, he still doesn’t quite trust the peace. It seems too good to be true. Quietly, expecting the question to be refused, to be rejected, he makes his hesitancy known, “So what, you’ll take them off, just like that?”

He gets a nod for his effort. “Just like that.”

His shoulders fall a little, releasing some of their tense state in the motion as he gapes at the other. Not true. That can’t be true. Just like that?

Buggy doesn’t think he believes his ears. He hasn’t had them off since… since his capture, really. For far too long, the draining sensation has been there and he hasn’t been able to get rid of it and it’s just drained and drained and drained… the energy, the life right out of him.

Seastone is cruel, in that way.

Even the lightly diluted variant that they’ve used for _his_ handcuffs is not any easier to bear, for all that he’s worn it for a long time by then.

And now they’ll be taken off, just like that?

His surprise is showing clear as day on his face, he doesn't care if the man sees it and he listens closely as the man ventures on to say, “I know you’re a pirate, the seastone handcuffs are proof enough for that.”

The burly man's features take on a hardened look, one of a person not to be underestimated. A guard, maybe, or a soldier. Buggy would do well to pay attention to what he’s saying.

Indeed, his suspicions seem to be proven correct, judging from the man’s next words, “You going to come with me to an audience with the King in peace or do we need to force you? I’ll remind you now, your body is currently in no state to escape.”

In response, Buggy consciously relaxes his whole body. The man is right, he is in no state to run or to do any physical activity more taxing than walking at the moment. Escaping some guard he doesn't even know the capabilities of? Extremely unlikely to get him anywhere but thrown in their prison for the sheer audacity, frankly. Getting his body to work up to the level of training he had before the marines took him in is going to be a _pain_.

He dares, since the man is in such a chatty mood, to ask him one more question, “Tell me something, first. Where is this place?”

The man’s raised eyebrow isn’t enough to derail him and Buggy stares at the man head-on, until he's informed, in a steady tone of voice, “We’re on Drum.”

“Drum?” a questioning frown spreads on the clown’s face, “But isn’t that… that island at the start of the Grand Line? In Paradise?” A pit opens up in his stomach as he thinks of the implications of him ending up here, in this particular location. He was headed for his execution earlier. That… has happened, right? That's been a thing? He isn’t imagining things, there?

“Yes. That’s exactly where we are.” The frown remains on Buggy's face, lightly tinged with confusion as he ruminates on the hows and the whys of him arriving on that island in particular. “Did you expect to be somewhere else?”

This line of questioning… his eyes widen and he tries to deflect immediately – no way is he going back there, no thanks, not voluntarily, he is noping right out of this –, “I mean, I… no, I don’t… I don’t… think so?” With a confused headshake, the clown takes a shuddering breath and goes on, saying, “No, sorry. I was just a little confused, is all.”

A sort of comfortable, companiable, silence descends that lasts for all but a few moments, before his damnable curiosity gets the better of him.

“Erm. What’s the date, anyways?” he asks.

He receives his answer quickly, “It’s the 9th of August.” the man informs him, giving him time to dissect the information.

9th of August?

What?

Hasn’t it been January when he’s been caught and taken prisoner? He can’t have been held captive for more than half a year, he refuses to believe he’s been _that_ out of it, even through all the interrogation and questioning and the _torture_ -

Putting a stop to that train of thought immediately, smothering it and banishing it to the deepest corners of his mind to be dealt with _later_ , he has a stroke of inspiration and snorts at the ludicrousness of it. It's ridiculous, right? On an impulse, Buggy asks to be told the full date, with the year tacked on at the end.

Upon receiving the answer, Buggy can’t believe his ears. No, surely they were playing tricks on him.

“Could you… could you repeat that?” he is reluctant to ask.

The man repeats the full date to him, adding on, “Truly, a day to be remembered.” with his eyes closed in a happy little smile. Ah, yes, a prince has been born to their king, ne? Truly, a day to be remembered, indeed.

Buggy’s eyes go out of focus, blank and wide.

“Oy, are you okay?” he hears in the distance, muffled, as though some kind of filter has been placed in his ears.

He feels his body tilting, swaying, threatening to fall over.

“Oy!” the shout is accompanied by a muted thump of something heavy landing on something soft.

Serenely, Buggy welcomes the darkness that envelopes his being.

* * *

When the Circus Captain next comes to, he is greeted by the handcuffs no longer being found anywhere on his person and the smell of something cooking coming from nearby. It is a pleasant surprise, for all that is still an incredibly unexpected development in his life.

He refuses to acknowledge the date he’s been given, to acknowledge that the whole conversation has been anything but a dream, and opts to try to stand up on his own. Heaving himself up with his arms, he lets one hover over the bed behind him, for added safety. Should he fall, he'll be quick to catch himself, this way.

His legs feel stiff and shaky, but he remains standing. The blue-haired man knows he won’t be able to keep it up for long but, in his eyes it is an improvement. Letting his hands dangle down to hang freely to the left and right of his hips, he looks down.

Boke no Buggy is free.

He is free.

The clown doubts that letting this little sentence traverse his thoughts will ever get old. It didn’t so far, after all, even years after he’s been out of the hell that is called Impel Down by the marines, when he’s had to remind himself at odd moments that he is a free man to make himself believe in the fact.

A pirate, still, but free nonetheless.

Something to get used to, anew.

Relaxing his shoulders, he raises his head up again, resolving to make his way to the next room on his own.

Indeed, he is able to walk and although his feet feel heavy and he threatens to fall over at every step he takes, he makes it. At the door, he puts his hand on the doorknob, but hesitates to push it down.

What if this is a dream and if he opens the door he’ll find out that he's back in his cell?

No, he can’t think like that. That way lays unfounded paranoia and nightmares galore and even though he’s well acquainted with both, he’s not inviting them in to his mind willingly, at least not yet.

( _He’ll have to, once there’s people after his hide again, but for now? He can use the reprieve and calm provided here_ )

( _There’s no sense in worrying over something that’s out of his hands and outside of his sphere of control_ )

( _Buggy isn’t going to get caught again this easily, he vows to himself, past or present be damned_ )

When he opens the door, he only just manages to hear wisps of the conversation between a woman and… a Den Den Mushi. That’s the only explanation for there only being one other person in the room besides him.

At first, it sounds like a secret that’s being passed on, the whispering, secretive tone of voice coming from the Den Den drawing him in and making him pay attention, although when Buggy registers what exactly is being said, he clears his throat to make his host aware of his presence, frankly not wanting to hear more about the latest gossip on the island.

“…and just between us, dunno where she’s found him but she’s brought home a strapping young-“ At the noise, the woman throws him a slightly apologetic look and cuts the speaker off by saying “Ah, sorry, our houseguest has just woken up. I’ll call you again tomorrow, is that alright?”

“Oh, uh.” Apparently, the other woman’s not used to being interrupted in her gossipmongering, and she's floundering a little, before settling on, “Yes, sure.”

“You do that.” The speaker tacks on at the end, before cutting the connection.

The woman turns to Buggy with a fond little shaking of the head, “How are you? Are you feeling better?”

Buggy is swaying a little on his feet but determined to stand on his own, and informs her, “I’m. Uhm. Better.” Is he this unused to people showing him kindness, he reprimands himself within the safety of his own head. He better get over it and fast!

For the moment, he only manages a brief, murmured, “Thanks.” Accompanied by a nod of his head.

The woman visibly brightens at hearing this and exclaims, “Take a seat! I’ll have your broth ready in a bit. Doctor Zuma said to give you watered down soup only for the time being – until we can make sure you can stomach heavier stuff.”

She smiles with closed eyes, as well. Maybe it’s something all people from Drum do? “The doctors on this island are some of the best, so we better do as he says!” she mentions offhandedly and winks at Buggy.

The clown is keeping quiet throughout the speech, sitting down in an empty seat at the table. Clearly, his feet are grateful for the reprieve. Curious, he looks around to take in more of the room's interior.

There’s four chairs at the table. Another one is propped up against a wall to Buggy’s right. The blue-haired man thinks he can remember one standing close to a curtained window in the room he woke up in. Lots of chairs to go around for the two people he’s seen so far. He surmises that they probably have people over a lot – friends or other family members.

Boke no Buggy’s left to idly wonder why he hasn’t woken up in a prison cell, when they’ve clearly seen his handcuffs. What a sight he must look, for them to take such pity on him, in addition to their generosity stemming from the prince’s birth?

Really, he can’t help himself when his curiosity rears its head one more time.

Frowning a little bit, he breaks the quietly comfortable atmosphere that’s fallen over them while he wasn’t looking, “Why… why are you this…” He can’t quite express what exactly he wants to ask, doesn’t find the correct words for what he wants to say and settles on, “why are you like this?” Kind, helpful, nice – to _him_. When he hasn’t done anything of worth in their eyes? He’s just been a bother so far, hasn’t he?

Her face transforms from a lightly startled one into one filled with surprise, “Oh, but you’re a guest in this house. And especially this week, it’s a celebratory week, after all! The prince has been born, has Kendal not told you about it?”

“Ah, no, uhm. I've been told.” he mentions quietly.

Looking down onto the table, he gets lost in thought. It’s been quite a while, but he hasn’t wholly forgotten how… generous people could become, on such occasions. It's just never slapped him quite this hard in the face, the fact that a celebration because of a royal son having been brought into the world can inspire such generosity and kindness.

( _He refuses to think back to when he’s needed that knowledge, back when he’s needed to know when food was easy to find and when getting by was determined not by your skills but by the general mood of the people living in the area._ )

( _Back when he’s made decisions based on that knowledge, and stolen more than he could justifiably need, to hoard for times when getting stuff and food wouldn’t be as easy to grab._ )

( _It isn’t always this nice, people aren’t always this kind, a cautious little voice at the back of his head pipes up, enjoy it while it lasts._ )

Luck appears to be on his side, this time. But for how long will it hold out?

Content humming fills the space and the woman goes back to bustling along the kitchen area of the room. "Kendal" is the man's name, Buggy supposes.

Just when he is about to ask for hers, a knock comes at the door. A young boy, probably by habit, opens it before the woman finishes saying “Come in!” and stops in the door, arrested in his tracks at the sight of their houseguest.

“Ah. You’re awake.” is all he says, matter-of-fact. The boy seems wary of him, yet a curious glimmer shines in his eyes.

Buggy notices the boy and glances over, almost without seeing him. Then he remembers. When he’s broken down the day before, hasn’t there been a small shoulder right there for him to cry on? Haven’t small arms encompassed him as he let his tragedy out in the only ways that he could think of?

Almost absent-mindedly, he nods at the boy and says, “Thank you. For yesterday.”, getting a cautious nod back in return. Another thing is vying for his attention currently and, with no more conversation expected out of him right now, he gives the matter his full focus.

Within a moment, another image seemingly superimposes itself over the boy’s in his mind’s eye, as the boy closes the door behind him and enters the room proper with strong steps.

Buggy has gone back to… what is the date again? Too many years into the past? Five years before Roger’s death, he manages to think.

Cabbaji’s about this boy’s age now, isn’t he? He wonders what the artist looked like, as a boy. The acrobat would be a scrawny five-year-old now, much, much smaller than the boy in front of him. Tiny, most probably, in comparison with the boy standing there.

And Buggy and Shanks are around… ten. Ten years old. And almost sailing with the future Pirate King’s crew. What a disaster. He needs a distraction.

“What’s your name?” Good distraction, great going, Buggy, he commends himself in his head.

“Dalton. My name’s Dalton.” Oh. Oh no. Bad distraction, retrace your steps. This has “mistake” written all over it. This little kid is Dalton? The stiff upper lip righteous Dalton from Drum? The one who ate the… what was it again? Bull Bull Fruit? This little kid?

The only current Devil Fruit User in the room has to work to make sure to remain acutely aware of where his eyebrows are in relation to his face and not move them above his face's natural limits, no matter how tempting it is right now.

No need to traumatize a kid unnecessarily. He chances a glance at the woman who is following the exchange curiously. And give the islanders ammunition against him, should his luck decide to run out. No need to tell them what fruit he ate until he absolutely needs to.

“What’s yours?” the boy challenges, in return.

Huh? He gives a surprised startle at the question.

Right. A name, huh.

* * *

Kendal picked him up to escort him to the castle sometime after they had lunch. He’s one of the King’s guardsmen, just like his father before him, apparently. Interesting, how these things stay within families sometimes. Buggy has learned that he’s a man of few words, but a good one, nevertheless, by now. The same kind of man that Dalton would grow up to be. Another thing that sticks within the family.

They go up the ropeway in peaceful silence, the two of them with another man in the front who has to keep pedaling to bring them up the mountain. The Drum Rockies loom in the distance, imposing height and all. Frankly, the ropeway has always seemed to be the most sensible thing to come out of Drum.

Leaning a little bit over the railing, carefully because he knows that a freak bout of wind can and will show no mercy if he’s not careful, he regards the view down below contemplatively, musing a little bit about the kingdom’s future to himself. From what Buggy’s heard about Drum whenever he’s paid attention to it, it’s a wonder no one crazy has ever come from here.

And then he sees what appears to be a small ship go by underneath, sails and all, veritably flying over the snow for all that it’s leaving no tracks whatsoever behind and remembers just _who_ he happens to have blissfully forgotten about until now. He freezes up at once, hardly managing to hold his body parts together and in place at the sight, so as not to tip Kendal off about his powers. Buggy is holding his breath and his heart picks up a rhythm that threatens to have it beat right out of his ribcage at seeing an acquaintance he’d rather not meet again, in all honesty.

He completely forgot about the one crazy person he _knows_ is from Drum.

Indeed, it is Doctor Kureha who flies back underneath with her sleigh with a sail on it, powered by… is that a flamethrower? Dismissing the sight as in line with her ongoing craziness, Buggy reprimands himself silently. There is no excuse, he really should have remembered that little tidbit about the island.

The Circus Captain has utterly forgotten about the crazy doctress on Drum. He _shouldn’t have_. Last time he’s been on the island, she was the one who chased him off with all sorts of weapons – and who knows where she even got them in the first place! The clown got away back then, but barely.

To be fair, at the time, he made the mistake of discharging himself from her care without consulting her first and, well. She didn’t take too well to that. Honestly, he’s learned his lesson since, but he doesn’t think Kureha would let him explain if he wants to. She’s that bloody stubborn a person.

Mayhaps she won’t notice him?

And then it hits him with a vengenace that, oh, hey. Wait a second. His death grip on the railing of the ropeway cart relaxes a smidgen. He's in the past, isn't he? She won’t know him, in that case. His heart is slowing down at that realization.

( ~~He refuses to think about all the other friends, _his crew_ , who all won't know him, either and puts it to the back of his mind with all the other unpleasant things, to be dealt with later~~)

Ah, but if he is subtle, maybe he can get off the island before she notices… and then he won't even have to talk to her.

Yes, good plan, that. Let’s see about making that a reality as soon as possible, ne?

First stop, the king’s audience chamber.

* * *

“Who are you?” a booming voice demands to know, and his eyes close tightly, as he is momentarily brought back to the execution platform he’s not so long ago been the main attraction on, with a different but not less loudly booming voice shouting orders at some underlings in the background. Is a loud and booming voice a requirement for someone in the king’s position?

Opening them again, Buggy offers, “I am… nobody important, really. Just a performer, you see the nose?” his helpful pointing goes unacknowledged, “The name’s Buggy.”

It’s the last piece of himself left in this world, the last thing remaining from way back when _~~there was BuggyandShanks~~_ , and he clings to it with all his might.

It’s _his_.

“Why were you handcuffed?” his shoulders relax a tad, when the questioning continues in a manner more reminiscent of someone curiously but cautiously poking with a stick into a straw pile to see whether or not there is a badger hiding within.

“It was” _~~my execution~~_ “a misunderstanding, really. The people who put these on me thought I was a Devil Fruit User, so…” his explanation peters out.

The hesitancy is picked up on, immediately, “You aren’t a User?” he is asked.

“I… dunno.” And it hurts, admitting that. “The seastone was pretty draining.” Was more than draining, really, was cruel and hurt and to an already-injured Buggy? “I don’t know if I can access my powers any longer.” That has been a harsh but very real and possible conclusion to come to, on the way up the mountain.

In light of this, the king’s leaning back a bit, posture regal, yet welcoming, “The doctors of Drum know a lot about Devil Fruit Users and the effects of seastone on people afflicted with the curse.” Huh, Buggy hasn’t met many who’d think of someone being a Devil Fruit User as a curse bestowed upon them. The others always just laughed at him, when he’d become one on the Oro Jackson. “My main advisor, Doctor Dellory, will know more about this?”

A man clad in a surgeon’s uniform – the only one among the people present wearing one, as far as Buggy can discern – to the left of the king spoke up, “As of now, no known case of a Devil Fruit User having lost their powers before death has been witnessed. I don’t think your powers are gone, Mister Buggy.”

Loathe as he is to correct the man, he doesn’t want to be called with the word “Mister” prefacing his name, “Ah, just Buggy is fine.”

He gets a nod for his preference of the casual addressal.

The king turns to the clown, once more, asking him in a much more leisurely tone of voice, “What are your next plans?”

The booming voice has been more for appearance’s sake, Buggy carefully takes note of, because the voice the man has adopted since sounds way more inviting now that Buggy is apparently classified as less than a threat to the kingdom in the king’s eye. The monarch goes on to say, “As you might’ve heard, my son was born yesterday, so I’m in a generous mood today," a small pause, "Buggy. And you seem down on your luck for the moment, if what I heard about the state you were found in is true. Is there anything we can do for you?”

Now, _that_ is something he hasn’t expected to hear at all. His mouth opens and closes multiple times and he’s sure he must look a lot like a fish before he fumblingly gets out, “I, er. It’s.”

Finally, his brain shifts into gear to properly think the situation through that he finds himself in.

Teenage Shanks and Buggy are presumably on their way to Logue Town now, and will be there soon – they’ll arrive in September. If he knows his dates right, he’ll have just three more weeks until he’ll need to be there, himself, if he wants to pick them up and… do... anything.

Buggy pickpocketed Roger in November, if he remembers it right.

A tiny seed of the beginnings of a plan to stop the boy from doing that forms in his head, to stop the two of them, the two kids, from joining the Rogers, because that path down lay devastation and wars led by a Pirate King who’s way too irresponsible to be allowed to care for two cabin boys who’ve hardly reached their teens.

With great effort, he switches his attention back to the conversation at hand.

Buggy mustn’t think of that now, not right then, if he wants to stay present in the moment.

“Do you have a ship I could borrow?” he asks instead, mapping out a way to Logue Town that could get him there in time.

Raised eyebrow. “Borrow?”

Ah, uhm. It’s not sure if he’ll make it back with the ship intact, is it? And he’s got no money to _pay_ for a ship, either. Changing tactics, Buggy admits, “I’ll erm. I want to go to the East Blue. Is there a ship headed there?”

The King exchanges glances with his advisors, then says, “You’re in luck, it seems. A merchant’s ship is to arrive tomorrow morning and leave before lunch. They’re headed for… what was their route again?” this question he directed at someone behind Buggy.

Kendal spoke up, “They’re bound for Whiskey Peak, first. After that, their route will bring them into the East Blue. I believe they’ve got business in Goa. They should be expected to make a pitstop in Logue Town, before. From there, you can reach whichever island in the East Blue you want to go to easily.”

Perfect. That is an even better prospect than if he’d planned it out, himself. He nods, not trusting his voice for the moment. This direct route means he’ll be in Logue Town before the two troublemakers will arrive. He’s not planned farther, yet. Buggy will need to arrive in Logue Town first, then he can think about what his next course of action needs to consist of.

That doesn’t, however, exempt him from bowing before the king in thanks. “Thank you for your help.” His heart threatens to burst with the multitude of positive emotions he harbours at the information he's been given.

When he straightens up once more, a person dressed in royal colours slides into the room through a side door, heading directly towards the king. Stopping herself a few meters away from the sovereign, she bows deeply and informs him, “Doctor Kureha has asked for an audience with you, your Majesty.”

The witch is coming? Alarmed, Buggy tries to surreptitiously catch what the king and the person are talking about, without looking like he's eavesdropping, keeping his eyes down but rising from the bow.

The king sounds fond as he replies, “Ah, right. She’ll be coming whether or not I ask her to wait, won’t she? When did she notify the messenger that she’ll arrive?”

Buggy’s legs are tense, and he feels the muscles in his arms bunch up in anticipation.

“As soon as possible. I believe she’ll be readying her sleigh to move up the Ropeway by now.”

Time to leave.

A tad wide-eyed and most definitely nervous, Buggy says. “Ah, you have other people to tend to. I’ll be. Erm. Taking my leave, then, if that is alright for you?” with a swirly hand gesture, he bows again, an artist's bow, turns on his heel and storms out, making no indication that he noticed Kendal following him.

Only once they clear the castle and are making a beeline for the ropeway does he acknowledge the burly man with a small glance backwards. He isn’t in the mood for smalltalk, and the other appears to have picked up on that, thankfully.

* * *

The journey down the ropeway is spent in a sort of tense silence, before it is broken by Kendal. “So. Uhm. You know of Doctor Kureha?”

“An old acquaintance of mine.” Buggy leaves it at that. No need to fuel the gossip. What with considerable Kureha’s age, younger though she may look, it’s more than believable that they’ve met somewhere before. No other words are exchanged and the wind is their only companion down.

That is, until Buggy makes out a bright spot in the distance, from where the lower ropeway station is located, growing bigger with every second.

Speak of the devil.

On the line of the ropeway, going up while they are making their way down, Doctor Kureha’s sleigh approaches rapidly, a sail attached to it with a sort of weird flamethrower contraption fuelling it, and her standing at the front. She’s coming closer and closer.

Buggy’s eyes are bulging out of their sockets, it feels like, and his mouth is hanging wide open. Why? Why can’t he have a calm day, just this once?

They are going to crash, they are going to crash, they are **going to-**

And then, all his anxiety is proven for naught, when he realises that her sleigh is somehow balancing atop the single second line of the ropeway, enough of a distance away from the one that their cart is hanging from to allow her sleigh to pass them by without harming anyone unnecessarily.

Her glide past their cart is wrought with tension on his side and he is unabashedly staring at her standing regally at the front of the sleigh, sneaking a glance down at them from her highter viewpoint, the mast with the huge sail in the middle blown up behind her majestically as if an updrift has gotten caught in it, and – and is that a person? Oh. A Devil Fruit, then? A Devil Fruit User is most probably the one fuelling the fire that drives the sleigh to speeds hitherto unknown by mankind.

The passing of them only lasts for bare seconds, precious few miliseconds maybe even, but they feel like half a lifetime to the clown.

And, really, once the sleigh's gone, Buggy doesn’t have to think long and hard to know just what Devil Fruit that could have been.

There has to have been someone before Portgas D Ace got the Mera Mera no Mi, and, apparently, they are on Drum, at least for some time. Or is it one of the previous Mera Mera no Mi’s owners, which have come even before the one before Ace? He's gone back far enough in time for that to be a possibility. Whichever is the case, the Fruit User's in Kureha’s care for the moment, and Buggy wishes them good luck with that.

Funny, in his own timeline, Buggy can't remember ever having heard that one of the Mera Mera no Mi’s Users had been to Drum. Then again, Drum isn't a place most people pay close attention to.

Also, at the time he’s been, what, ten years old? And green about the world and not thought much more about anything than about his own survival.

He’s doing the right thing.

By going to Logue Town, he is doing the right thing.

By changing history, by changing one person’s life, he is doing the right thing.

By making sure his earlier version – if there even is one to be found – will not join the Rogers, he’s doing the right thing.

_By whatever god is listening out there, Buggy is prepared to become someone who he himself would have needed back when he was ten years old._

* * *

"A prisoner, eh?" a raised eyebrow accompanies the unspoken demand for details.

"I let him go." he answers her, calm as can be, long since used to the abrupt topic changes in their conversations.

"Dunno if that was such a sensible decision." she scoffs, "Are you getting old?"

She doesn't give him room to talk, plunging right into the heart of the matter of why she's come all the way up to the castle.

“And you're dead set on it? You’re going to call him Wapol, really?” Kureha snorts derisively, clearly not in favour of the name. “And you keep calling yourself Redbert. You don’t even have a beard, never mind that it wouldn’t be red in the least. What’s that all about?” Idle chitchat isn't usually her modus operandi, yet here she is, doing just that.

The king leans on the railing of the balcony to look out over the snow clouds that have claimed most of his country by now. He smiles, knowing that Kureha won’t understand his reasons, even if he goes the extra mile and makes an effort to explain them to her, “Oh it’s a new fad. Makes my face much more approachable, don’t you think?”

Dismissing her subsequent eyeroll as unimportant, he goes on to tell her, “I’ve thought about making my guards do the same, shave off their beards. Makes them more approachable for the general public.”

That has Kureha huffing out a bout of scornful laughter. “You young ones and your… _fads_.”

The king closes his eyes with another smile, long since used to the venerable doctor’s commentary. “You wouldn’t happen to know where that quack doctor is hiding himself, would you?” he idly asks, already knowing she would do her utmost to be _difficult_ , even for him. There are times when he enjoys her presence.

“Haven’t seen him in a while. Has he died yet?” Kureha snorts out, carelessly making her opinion of her colleague known.

“Heh, you can’t fool me, Kureha. You’ve figured out all the hiding places a hundred years ago already. If there’s any person safe on this island from being found by you, Kureha, it’s the person you don’t try to look for, a person you don’t know to look for.” The king shakes his head in fond exasperation of her antics. He’s come to a sort of understanding with her, these days, and is happy to leave it at that.

Offhandedly, he mentions, “I’ll leave it be for now. He’s got a noble goal, after all.”

Ah, there is that derisive huff he’s been expecting. “Wants to dye the island pink and you call that a noble goal?”

She turns around, heading inside through the open balcony door adjacent to his audience chamber. The guards have the decorum to leave the two alone for their infrequent talks, waiting just outside of hearing range for him to call on them whenever he needs them. “This country is going to the fishes if even the king starts thinking like that.” Kureha throws behind her on her way back inside, scoffing, “And it’s _Doctor_ Kureha, Fool King.”

He doubts his smile can become any more fond in the refreshing presence of one of his best doctors.

Resting outside for a beat longer, he soon follows her inside.

After all, he has a son to show off to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags to reflect what goes on in later chapters - please do mind them, it won't be pretty (I did warn ya), at least for a certain time. And I've updated the first chapter with a quote I thought fitting. :)
> 
> Also, Buggy's very much _functioning_ at the moment. He'll crash later, when he feels safe enough to.
> 
> Also also, I've hit 223322 words in my statistics page! I've put 223322 words on AO3 by now :D yay! Go me!!! (will work out later what that means in terms of what I've written since December, but afaik, it's >80k)
> 
> Hope you liked it?
> 
> Would love it if you could spare the time to comment, dear readers, if you're in the mood to~ Thank you very much for reading!  
>   
> Cheers!


	4. The Wanderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buggy lands in Logue Town and has a breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, these chapters keep blowing up on me O_o
> 
> WE'RE IN LOGUE TOWN!!! FINALLY!!!!!!!!
> 
> (you will not _believe_ how long I've waited to write about Buggy arriving there already!!!)
> 
> Enjoy~!

_Jede Reise, jede Wanderschaft ist ein Aufbruch zu neuen Ufern, ein Sprengen der Ketten, die uns an den Felsen des Alltäglichen und Gewohnten schmieden._

_(Every journey, every wandering around is a departure to new shores, a blasting of the chains that bind us to the rock of everyday life and the things we are used to.)_

~Dr. phil. Carl Peter Fröhling

* * *

“You’re sure you’ll want to do this?” A rumbly voice asks, its owner clearly exasperated with their patient. Two chairs screech slightly over the floor as both make to stand up.

“What have I got to lose, Dr. Deron?” the doctor gets for an answer, a grin lingering under the smirk that the black-haired man throws at the white-clad one, threatening to break free any moment now.

A sigh deflates the doctor’s body. He can’t believe what he’s trying to do, but his duty demands from him that he do try, one more time, at least. “Just saying, you could stay here, look for a wife, settle down and live a year in peace, before you have to kick the bucket.” Not that he believes it would work, not with the stubbornness personified in front of him.

His doubts are proven correct when the others only snorts in reply, saying “You know me, what life would that be, for an old codger like me?” Derisive laughter fills every corner of the room, and the man shakes his head, “No. I’m going to go out once more, on an adventure. To the Grand Line, to make my mark. You watch me, Doctor, I’ll be one of the most famous pirates out there.”

Accompanying the man to the door of the practice, he peels off his gloves and, as is his habit, throws them in the bin without looking. Disbelief is warring with his worry about his patient’s health.

He laughs, not entirely sure if he heard right, “You? East Blue Pirates never make it that far. But yeah, sure, do what you like.”

The doctor doesn’t even look at the man as he ventures on to say, “I’m just advising you to take it easy. Live your life how you want to.” The door opens with a creak and Doctor Deron comes to stand at the sink besides it, opening the faucet with a quick turn of his hand. Defeated, he shrugs his shoulders while he’s washing his hands clean of the matter.

The other man laughs again, finding their topic of conversation all too amusing for someone who knows exactly what fate has in store for him. Standing in the door, he faces the room one last time, a charismatic presence if there’s ever been one, looks at the doctor with a grin and says,

“Oh, I will, Doctor, I will. I don’t have much of it left, after all.”

With a slight creak, the door closes in his wake.

* * *

Buggy isn’t sure what he’s expected to find, once his feet settle on the well-worn cobblestones of the pier.

The port is filled with busy people, shouting at one another and relaying orders. Snugly, he draws his Haki close to him, making it cloak him and only giving him the barest hints of the auras surrounding him.

Free of the seastone chains, he likes having the option of letting it roam freely over the area around him – he’s not known just what he’d lost when they’d been put on him.

Seastone is known to dampen Haki powers some, but for Buggy that’s always only meant that he’s had less of a grip on what it shows him and what it lets get close to him. From the first time he’s unlocked it, he hasn't so far completely been able to stop entirely hearing the flow of voices around him, has only ever been allowed to wrap it as close to himself as he can.

That has never translated into less of an area than around a meter to his sides, though, so he’s been lucky that for his execution everyone stood much farther away.

Logue Town is another matter entirely, though, isn’t it?

A bustling town, it has always attracted all sorts of people from all over the world.

In five years, it would be called the Town of the Beginning and the End, Buggy idly muses in the quietness of his mind. What a pretentious title for such a small town. Yet, for the East Blue, it passes for a big one, doesn’t it? One of the biggest towns to be found in this most peaceful of all the Blues, aside from the Goa Kingdom, most probably, if Buggy’s knowledge is to be trusted.

Last time he’s been here, that was… for the anniversary, wasn’t it? Because Alvida suggested they go there to catch the strawhat-wearing nuisance of a Rookie Pirate and he’s agreed because the anniversary of Gol D Roger’s execution was coming up anyways. He’s wanted to pay his respects, at the time. Instead, he’s gotten himself arrested and thrown in Impel Down, leaving his crew stranded there to fend for themselves.

What a mess he’s made of things.

And now he is here again, already?

The blue-haired captain is far too early.

Buggy and Shanks won’t arrive for another two and a half weeks, at least.

Still stunned at the sheer generosity he’s been met with upon arriving back at Kendal’s house in Drum, he simply stands there, on the pier a little out of the way of others going into the port, letting the people’s shouts and the seagull’s cries wash over him. A light breeze moves through his hair, which he’s tied up in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. The clothes he's wearing are simple, if a little on the bigger side for him. They hang off his frame a bit, but he's sure he'll regain the kilos he's lost while in capture. His hands clutch at the bag the people back on Drum have given him, filled with a change of clothes, a few Beri to his name and small knickknacks he could use.

Emotions bubble up inside of him. Before he can tear up, he catches himself. No, it is not the right place, nor is it the right time to do so. First things first, he needs to find himself a place to stay, at least for the first night. Then he can finally turn his attention towards the more unpleasant, the more emotionally demanding things occupying his mind.

They’ve grown, since Drum, to become a looming threat hanging over his head.

If he is particularly unlucky ( _and he can already see it happening in his mind_ ), they might overwhelm him in the worst possible moments.

Like, say, in a fight, where he really should pay attention to the other stuff that’s going on.

Not a favourable outcome, in the least. Buggy strives to minimise the damage that his mind could potentially wreak on his life by trying to work through his issues one by one and with a lampshade pointing to them, for good measure. Doesn’t mean he likes the prospect of having to do so.

But if he has to do this to remain in control of his actions and reactions in any given situation, then there is no excuse not to get a room for himself where he can break down in peace. Preferably a soundproof one, if he has any say in it.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Mayhaps there is one with a boiler adjacent. Or in a cellar, with thick walls around it and no window to speak of.

An old piece of advice floats up from the currents of his thoughts to provide him with the next course of action. Underground bars usually have these types of rooms on offer for the unlucky pirate currently at odds with the marines, don’t they?

Trouble is, thirty years from now, Buggy would be perfectly in the know about which bars like that exist and where to find some of these hidden caches. More than thirty years into the past? The probability of exactly those existing now is tremendously small, especially seeing as how back in his own timeline, the marines keep sniffing them out and making them uproot their businesses every other month or so.

If worst comes to worst, Buggy can always go the traditional route of paying for a hotel room or a bed and breakfast and bribe the owner to keep silent on the screaming coming from his room.

Yeah, way to introduce himself and his nightmares to the general populace, great going. Not his preferred outcome, but he’ll make do.

With a grimace, he begins walking into town, checking for some of the old pirate signs that can be found on street corners sometimes, hoping for something to guide him towards the more hidden establishments that the town has to offer, his mind drifting back to Drum and what happened after… Kureha… passed them by this with her flaming companion aboard the sleigh.

* * *

They don’t mention Doctor Kureha on the rest of the way down. Her flashy appearance spoke for itself, really. It’s Kendal who breaks the silence, before they reach the lower station.

“So… you want to go to the East Blue, huh? You have family there?” he asks in a measured tone.

The pirate captain breathes in steadily, still trying to get his fast-beating heart under control and get a grip on the emotions that arise at the question. “… Something of the sort.” Buggy admits at last, not comfortable talking about anything this close to home and not knowing what else he can say in the face of it.

“Look, I don’t know your story – and I don’t mind not knowing.” Kendal hastens to add on.

“Just know that… our king’s a good one.” he says with a conviction that Buggy himself has rarely seen or felt throughout his own life.

“And if he sees potential in you,” he breaks off shortly to rephrase, “if he didn’t think you were a good man, he wouldn’t have let you go free. Not like that.”

It is heartening to know someone unafraid to show this much trust in a ruler of theirs. Boke no Buggy has seen a lot in his life, but rulers who are admired and looked up to like this are few and far between, he knows.

The blue-haired clown is hesitant to tell the man what is going through his mind, but he feels he owes him this much, at least, and admits, “You should. Probably. Erm. Know that I’m… pretty far from being a ‘good man’.”

An almost-silent scoff is his answer, along with a heartfelt, “And you should know that we don’t care.”

Kendal lets a moment pass between them with no more words spoken between them, as the cart enters the lower station of the ropeway.

“We trust in our king.” he says when they dismount, “Is it that hard to believe that we trust our leader to guide us? That we trust in his decisions to be good ones?”

The guardsman lets Buggy stew over the revelation in peace and a comfortable silence accompanies them back to the house. Buggy’s shoulders relax a fraction. He’s among good people, here, he realises at last, and he can feel the tiredness in his bones dragging him down. Perhaps he is allowed to let it, surrounded by these people.

The ropeway station is not far away from Bighorn. Kendal leads the way as though he’s traversed it a million times already – which is probably the case, what with him working up there, in the castle.

Buggy sees the snow covering the area, putting a sugary coat over the roofs and reflecting the evening shine of the sun’s rays from the horizon. Under the borrowed shoes he is wearing, the snow crunches and glistens and Buggy stops just before the town’s houses can obscure the sunset completely.

It is a beautiful sight, one that he didn’t think he’d be allowed to enjoy again.

To Buggy, it is all the more magical, after everything that’s brought him here.

Peace settles over his body, his frame lax as he gets to enjoy the evening sunlight.

Kendal obliges him, stopping a few meters away, following his eyes and amicably keeping him company for the moment.

Their brief stop there lasts a few seconds, no, minutes, before Buggy starts putting one foot in front of the other, once more, and they make their way to Kendal’s house.

The main room is filled to the brim with life, when they enter through the door. All the chairs Buggy has counted after waking up are occupied, and plenty more have been brought in. Only two of them are empty, and it’s obvious to the newcomers who they’ve been kept that way for.

Buggy lets his eyes roam over the ensemble of people chatting and shouting their welcome to Kendal, and Buggy by association. The clown is asked to enter and gently guided to a chair, where he gingerly takes a seat. A broth is set in front of him immediately.

The chatter starts up with nary a pause, the assembled men and women gossiping as though there was a prize to be won. The pirate captain feels one corner of his mouth travel up at the memory of his own crew indulging in a similar activity way more often than they probably should have.

The relaxed atmosphere takes some of the nervousness off of Buggy’s shoulders and he devotes his attention to slowly eating the broth. No sense in hurrying when there is no need for it. He can take his time.

“Hey, you’re Buggy, right?” one of the men asks, all of a sudden addressing him and making his shoulders tense briefly, before he forcibly relaxes them.

His nod is silent, cautious. He hasn't noticed Kendal handing out his name and that just tells him all there is about his mental occupation.

“I’m Avi, a friend of June’s. I think we share a similar size, ne?” he asks, a friendly and, from what Buggy can tell, genuine inquiry, “Those clothes we found you in can’t be comfortable to wear all the time, I thought, so I brought over some old ones of mine for you to try on later – they’re in the guestroom.” The man smiles at him. Point made, he turns back to the other one whom he’s held a conversation with before and goes right back to protesting against something the other has said (“ _No way Tevol, clearly_ I _have done more shovelling than you, don’t take all the credit! You only helped move the snow with the wheelbarrow!_ ”) to a woman opposite of them in the meantime, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Buggy is stunned, halted in the midst of berating himself mentally to keep paying attention to his surroundings, dammit!

Broth forgotten, his mouth is opened a little, to refuse or do something else, he’s not sure, so he closes it after a beat of nothing coming out. That… is not something he’s expected them to do for him, to offer him, just like that. Yes, he was at the moment wearing stuff that Kendal has graciously given him - his prisoner's outfit doesn't hold up against below-zero temperatures, after all - but he has not counted on them going this far. For him.

These people, they’re… just being kind to him and he hasn’t quite figured out if they want him to do anything in return yet or what he could potentially offer them in the first place.

They’ve given him food, cared for him, obviously also while he’s been lying in bed and have provided him with warm clothes for the drive up to the castle, without him having to ask for anything at all.

The men and women are talking about the avalanche on the road to Robelle again, each claiming to have done more than the others, and they’re smiling, with him in the middle.

He’s… he doesn’t deserve this. But he doesn’t really have much of a choice, does he?

Buggy the clown has been unanimously accepted in their midst and it feels… warm.

It feels comfortable, almost like being around his crew once more.

The talking over other people’s voices, the loud objections, the food being shared and eaten together at the same table…

And no one pays Buggy much attention if he doesn’t want to be in the spotlight for once.

One woman, the one who’s been there when he woke up, – June is her name, if he concluded that correctly – keeps glancing over, yet her looks appear to mostly concern the food in front of him and his rate of eating it.

He isn’t used to being taken care of, like this.

It’s nice.

The latest news are shared between the people present.

Oh, Buggy tunes back in to pay attention, when someone mentions that parts of Kureha’s sleigh have been found in the avalanche.

“Ah no, she’s fine – we’ve seen her go up the ropeway to the castle. She’s probably having a good look at our new princeling by now.” Kendal boasts, his voice loud and his words loose from the beers he’s consumed, “Made a huge entrance, I think she’s found someone to point a flamethrower to blow hot air into the sail on her sleigh! Let me tell you, that looked quite the sight! I almost had a heart attack on the way down, she was coming up that fast!”

Tevol interjects, disbelief at the story warring with what he knows about her, “She’s one hell of a woman, but good luck to those that cross her. Poor soul, having to man the flamethrower.” He shakes his head at what he thinks the person did to make her use them like that, “Whatever they’ve done, she’s getting back at them in the craziest way possible.”

Buggy keeps mum about his suspicions of it being a Devil Fruit User in her care. Whether or not they know about it doesn’t matter, he thinks. They’ll find out soon enough. Kureha’s not one to keep quiet about anything, in his opinion.

The pirate just wants to be off the island before she lands in Bighorn. He doesn’t want to be confronted by her and has no desire to end up in her _tender care_ again.

* * *

The next morning dawns much too soon.

“So, you’re leaving, eh?” Kendal says with an almost-fond look in his eyes. He hits Buggy’s right shoulder, lightly, a friendly tap that still almost makes Buggy bowl over from the force of it, “Safe travels to you.” Then his eyes predictably close and he smiles at Buggy.

“Yeah. Thanks.” The clown murmurs, with the barest hints of a smile playing on his own face.

They’re standing at the port, the merchants having unloaded the wares already. They are preparing to cast off, once more. One of the men who were present the day before appears in the distance, with a boy – Dalton – accompanying him. They’re running towards them and Buggy and Kendal wait for them to come closer patiently.

Once Avi comes into earshot, he says, “Ah, don’t forget to let us say goodbye, too!”

In return, Kendal asks, “Where’s…?” but he’s prevented from going on by the other man, “She has to help Old Lady Lyra get her guest settled in alright, but she’ll be here soon.” They are talking about June, most likely, the woman has been hovering over Buggy ever since it’s become clear he’ll head out the next morning. Little Dalton goes to his father's side immediately, looking up to Buggy a little shyly but with a serious tilt to his head.

“You ready to leave?” Avi pleasantly asks the clown.

“… Yeah. Thanks. For everything.” Truly, Buggy’s grateful. Their kindness hasn’t been anticipated in the least, and he’ll make sure to pay them back for it as soon as he can.

“Don’t mention it!” the man says promptly, the corners of his eyes crinkling up when he closes them to smile at Buggy, as well.

Buggy’s not sure how to better express himself than by repeating himself and addressing Kendal, “I mean it. Thank you.”

The burly man simply resorts to let his silence speak as he keeps up his smile, laying an arm around the boy at his side.

Rounding a corner, June comes running towards them shortly thereafter. Stepping into the group, she huffs a little, then says, “Ah, sorry. I’m late, aren’t I?”

“No problem, dear, we were just seeing him off.” The look on Kendal’s face is tenderly directed at her.

Avi takes the moment between the two to hand Buggy something, “Here, your bag.” ‘That they’ve filled with things he’ll need’ goes unspoken.

“Thank you for taking on this errand for us.” The woman tells Buggy, but, frankly, the pirate almost feels like doing this for them is inadequate when faced with all their gifts to him. The errand was to do with him bringing a letter to June's cousin living in Logue Town, they’ve told him.

“It’s no problem” Buggy reassures her, “Especially as it’s on the way, anyways.”

Oh, Logue Town isn’t just “on the way”. It’s his end destination, at least for now, for the barest hints of his plan to start coming into shape.

However, he doesn’t need to tell anybody he’s basically got no home, no one waiting for him at the moment – who’ll wait for Boke no Buggy when most of who could reasonably be expected to do so aren’t even born yet? – and he’s not in the mood for playing the charity case or exploiting their surprising, unexpected and humbling hospitality and kindness more than he’s done so far.

“You make sure to call once you’ve reached my cousin’s house, you hear me?” she orders him.

Buggy bows his head a little, “Yes. Thank you.”

The moment is nice, the group of them standing there, little Dalton quietly moving to come to a rest between what Buggy surmised are both his parents, their friend standing a little to the side and Buggy right there, together with them.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Buggy’s head is still reeling from everything they’ve done for him, “I don’t- it’s not- I don’t think I can pay you back for how much you helped me these past few days.“ An anxious frown takes over his face and he struggles to come up with anything to make it up to them.

Avi – whose clothes he’s wearing currently, who’s been nothing but pleasant so far and proven to be delightful company the evening before – mischievously, half-seriously asserts, “Alright.” making Buggy startle a little and look at him in askance, “You can pay us back however much you think you owe us once you’re ready, then.”

The message rings clear to Buggy’s ears, albeit the statement is… a little strange to hear, after what they’ve done for him. _Stay in touch_.

The pirate captain gives him a relieved little smile.

The message is reinforced verbally by June.

“Don’t be a stranger.” she says and it warms his heart up even more in the face of such an open invitation to come back.

They want him to come back, to keep in touch.

This is not the end of their acquaintance.

It almost seems like… like Buggy might’ve made some friends, there.

A tiny bud of something he dares to call hope starts to grow in his mind.

“I’ll call. See you again sometime!” Buggy tells them, fully resolved to do keep his promise, once he meets June’s cousin.

“Godspeed to you!” Kendal offers, sending him one last smile with his eyes closed.

* * *

“Here ye go.” A mug is placed in front of Buggy. The bar is average, a run-of-the-mill one, with few customers and the barkeeper leaving people alone to brood, as far as Buggy has observed.

He nods, then aborts the action and asks instead, “Excuse me? Ye wouldn’t happen to know anywhere I can hole up for a bit?”

The clown makes sure to inflect his voice with the proper cadence and use the language he knows is commonly found in the East Blue, along with the bartender’s peculiar take on it. Wouldn’t do to make them realise he’s not a native from the first time he opens his mouth and the more he mirrors the man, the more he’ll get out of him. He’ll try to blend in with the crowd as best he can. Anything he can glean from people not knowing his precise origins is better than nothing. Plus, people tend to be more talkative when they think you’re from somewhere nearby.

The man briefly stops in his cleaning of the bar, glances at the clown, then turns back around and says, “Depends on what ye’re looking for.”

“Anything will do, really.” Buggy admits softly, challenging the man to give him options to choose from.

The bartender’s not paying him any more attention than necessary, idly thinking aloud, “Well, there’s the inn out front, on the main street-“

“I’m looking for a more… privacy focused establishment.” Buggy cuts him off with a frown. His request is clumsily phrased, but if it gets Buggy what he wants, he’ll take it. Narrowing his eyes a tad, he puts his hand into his pocket and takes out two a hundred Beri pieces.

As a pirate, he’s seen a lot of other scoundrel make up codes and mystery signs and whatnot, but he’s grown up alongside the Roger pirates and knows a thing or two about the Old Ways. To be honest, he’s gambling a little, there, curious if it’ll work in this random bar in Logue Town.

Cradling the two coins between his thumb and two of his fingers, he lets them hit the bar just right, just enough to make a sound to be heard by the barkeeper. When the man halts in his actions at the noise and glances over his shoulder at him, Buggy lets a slight grin travel over his face, having been proven correct by the man’s reaction alone.

* * *

Having obtained temporary lodgings that more than meet his requirements, he heads back into the bar, passing the staff entrance on the way to the front. Buggy’s fine with the simple bed he’s been given away from the noisy main street and right besides the obnoxiously loud boiler and heating system underneath a hotel whose owner is quite unaware of the room’s existence.

Ah, good old secrecy.

Buggy’s never been particularly glad about having learned pirate customs, but its usefulness has not let him down once yet.

Content with his situation for the moment – he’ll have his breakdown later, in peace, after having slept, most probably at an unholy time to be awake, around four-ish in the morning – he enters the bar and goes right up to the helpful bartender, gratefulness making him tip the man a little more than strictly necessary when he orders and pays for his next beer.

Everything is quiet for once and Buggy frankly should have learned not to trust in quiet moments lasting for any time period in his life a long time ago.

As it is, he is caught utterly unprepared for the words coming from the door.

“Hi there,” a rumbling voice says, “gimme a beer, will ya?” bringing with it the vivid imagery of strict rules and punishments, endless training hours spent in the sun with sweat running all over him and mocking laughter concerning Buggy’s capabilities. One sentence rings in his head, almost drowning out everything else, before his eyes widen even more in muted shock as he hears a second speaker begin to talk.

“And an ale for me, thanks.” an even-better-known cadence, a well-worn voice asks for, pleasantly polite.

For a moment, everything stands still in Buggy’s mind and the images of his long-dead captain and Silvers Rayleigh superimpose themselves over the two men that have entered the bar and come up to the barkeep to place their orders.

Buggy’s shoulders rise, tense, his stomach doing flipflops, and then, the world tilts a little, the images blur and left are two men in simple clothes, the familiarity and similarity with the men from his memory ending at their gender and their choice of words.

The clown starts coughing, spluttering, and he is forced to bend over as heavier coughs escape his body. A hand claps hesitantly against his back. But there’s nothing lodged in his throat, nothing that needs help dispelling and Buggy gestures with his hand to leave him alone, he’ll be okay, thanks.

The coughing fit doesn’t leave off.

The realisation that _those people_ could technically already be in Logue Town is enough to send his paranoia into overdrive.

“You okay, mate?” the slightly confused worry accompanying the hand leaving his back can be heard clearly.

“I’m good, thanks.” He wheezes out.

It wasn’t them.

It wasn’t them, it’s just two guys who have similarly sounding voices, a similar build and use a similar choice of words to order stuff at a bar, get a grip Buggy.

They’re not going to get the drop on you, you’ve got your Haki, you’ll feel them coming from miles away.

( _And now he’s scared to have it cover more than his immediate surroundings, fears their auras making a blip on it, great_ )

( _because what if, what if, what if they’re already there? What if they’re in Logue Town?_ )

( _what if he meets them before he’s ready, what then?_ )

* * *

After a few more awkward moments of him making a scene and diffusing it, Buggy excuses himself to go back to his room. He can’t go into town like this, he doesn’t think he can keep himself from falling apart at the seams at the realisation.

Mechanically, he opens the door he’s closed not all that long ago and enters the room, locking it behind him for good measure.

If he’s breaking down, then he’s not doing it with anyone from outside able to come in at any moment.

The boiler’s noise is doing its best at drowning out his thoughts, but Buggy’s well aware of them already.

Majorly interested in being the sensible person that he thinks he is, he’s still made a grave mistake, a huge miscalculation on his part of the equation.

Boke no Buggy hasn’t thought ahead, for once.

All he’s thought about since he’s left Drum is a vague idea of him wanting to make a change in his younger self’s life – _without knowing if his younger self is even there, is even alive for him to make a change, mind,_ – and he’s not once thought that… that Roger… that the Roger Pirates… could have come to Logue Town before he’d ever met the guy in person, all those years ago.

Oh, he knows there’s some members still missing, but Rayleigh had been there from the start, in that other lifetime where he’d joined them.

“ _Fare thee well. Take care._ ”

No. He’s not gonna think about that, not here, not right now. In a few minutes, he will allow himself to, but right in this moment, he’s busy making sure that the ratty blanket he’s been given covers everything of him it can and that the clothes Avi’s gifted him with do the rest.

He wants to feel warm, for now.

Ignoring the tears running down his face, the pirate stares blankly at the tattered wallpaper on the wall opposite of the wooden frame the bartender’s colleague has passed off as a “bed” to him. There’s no window to look outside, no one to look in on Buggy.

These days, he’s crying silently, had to learn to do that, had to adapt and fast, since doing anything else would have assured that there were marines knocking on his cell door or dragging him off to somewhere unknown.

The sound from the boiler and the heating system outside the chamber assures him that no one will come for Buggy should he decide to scream out his nightmares to the world. Technically, a perfect room to rob someone, but Buggy’s sure they’ve seen the state of his clothes, the state of his being and come to a sensible conclusion regarding that endeavour.

Buggy huffs a little in derision. The Circus Pirate knows that if they haven’t, his nights aren’t filled with deep sleep anyways and he’ll be able to scare off anyone who makes an attempt at stealing anything from him – _the letter is to be kept safe at all costs_ – with a low probability of harm befalling him.

He’s free, isn’t he?

The people from Drum have inadvertently liberated him.

No more leashes, no more chains, no more handcuffs are on Buggy the Clown.

And then he notices the parallels and can’t keep the voice from overtaking his thoughts any longer.

A “ _Fare thee well. Take care.”_ is carelessly thrown overboard, just like he’s felt he has been, standing stranded on a boat close to that island in the middle of nowhere, looking up at the Oro Jackson as its sails are opened to catch the wind once more. His twelve-year-old self is standing in that lifeboat they’ve pilfered from other pirates, two oars at the sides, and his home for more than two years’ time is slowly, cruelly, drifting off before disappearing from view entirely.

With a gasp, he wakes up from the nightmare, still sitting on the bed, curled up tighter than a circus ball is round.

How long did he sleep? Minutes? An hour?

These days, it’s rarely longer than that.

At the execution that shook the whole world, it wasn’t just his captain who died, oh no. The crew’s whole connection was gone from that moment forth and they made no secret just how much of a burden Buggy was for them. _Nakama_ , yeah right.

It wasn’t like in his nightmare, no, they didn’t put him in a lifeboat and leave him behind like that at all.

But that doesn’t mean that Buggy’s okay with the way that Roger and his people did handle the disbanding of the crew and the subsequent separation.

The emotions churning a hole into his stomach are unwelcome, albeit not unfamiliar to him.

Buggy’s long since used to feeling the rejection associated with the Rogers.

After all, he’s never been one of the Roger Pirates’ crew, not really, has he?

Silvers raved on and on about Buggy needing to learn this, Buggy needing to be more daring, Buggy needing to be more like that all the time. Even Crocus kept nagging him about his lack of initiative concerning his strength training. The one thing that the doctor seemed truly ever happy about was that Buggy took to the Haki training like a fish to water. Out of necessity, but still.

Only Gol D Roger himself ever honestly cared for the clown, loathe as he is to admit it, alongside Shanks, for all that the teasing never stopped.

And that just makes Buggy remember the last time he’s seen Shanks. Hurt. Injured. Because of _him_. At Buggy's own _execution_.

Every thought feels like a punch and he doubles over from the pain.

Boke no Buggy hopes, with every fibre in his heart, that Shanks can recover from his wounds.

He has no way of making sure, has no way of seeing his hopes become reality this far into the past, so he uses the only way he knows, dusts it off from years, decades of disuse, clumsily puts his hands together under the ratty blanket and Avi’s old clothes in that worn-out little room across from the heater and boiler of a hotel, the name of which he doesn’t care to remember, and prays.

He hopes for his crew to have made it.

He hopes for Shanks to have made it out of the disaster that was his execution _alive_.

And he resolutely ignores anything to do with his own involvement in said execution for now, because it’s still too raw, still too fresh in his mind and it still manages to remind him and make him uncomfortably aware of long-since-banished memories stemming from the disaster of an execution that the marines proceeded to label the _War of the Best_ way back when.

Instead, once done with his hopes and prayers for his chosen family, he turns his attention to another pressing matter at hand. The captain only has the room for that one night, he has to be out again by dawn at the latest, so he’ll need to make good use of it for the precious little time that he’s managed to pay for the peace and quiet and disturbance-less environment.

What on earth is he to do?

With a lot of bravado, when he was on Drum, he's decided that he’ll take it upon himself to keep his younger self from reaching for Gol D Roger’s pockets.

To prevent him from stealing from the pirate captain everyone else would revere in the future.

But what if, by doing that, he’s inadvertently sealing someone else’s fates, influencing them negatively, in any way?

What if he’s unknowingly condemning anybody to an early death, simply because a younger version of himself wouldn’t be there, on the Oro Jackson, with the other Roger Pirates?

_What if he dooms Gol D Roger in some way, by keeping a younger Buggy from being discovered by the man?_

_~~What if his decision costs Shanks his life prematurely?~~ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, a whole week of churning out chapter after chapter O_o
> 
> Woah. Didn't know I could do that. I might be a bit obsessed, with this story?
> 
> A BIG THANK YOU goes again to [stereden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereden/pseuds/stereden) and [Turtletails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtletails/pseuds/Turtletails) for letting me ramble about ideas and chapters and a writer's pains!!! :D  
> Check them out, dear readers, they are prolific authors here on AO3, as well!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, everyone!
> 
> Leave a comment if you're in the mood?
> 
> Also, I've got a [tumblr](https://aibhilin-atibeka.tumblr.com/), if you'd like to hit me up there and rant to me about my version of Buggy or this story or any of my other stories, feel free :) I don't post much, I mostly reblog, but it exists.


	5. Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buggy goes shopping, his way, and procrastinates on preparing for the meeting he can see coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Another aspect of Buggy's that I find interesting: his Devil Fruit :D You'll finally see it in action, here~
> 
> Enjoy!

_How I long to fall just a little bit,_

_To dance out of the lines and stray from the light_

~Dar Williams, taken from the song _Iowa (Travelling III)_

* * *

When his tears have run dry, the morning is dawning and it’s time to vacate the premises already.

Going to June’s cousin can be delayed until the afternoon, he muses to himself. If pressed for an answer as to why he's not arrived there after the merchant's ship has reached Logue Town's port, he can claim not to have found the way there immediately.

The first thing he decides to do is to go shopping.

Buggy hasn’t felt much like himself ever since he’s woken up, and he wants to get at least a little bit of that back as soon as he can.

Having only a few things he can call his own, he resolves to find some money before anything else.

Back on Drum, he didn’t dare, didn’t want to overstay his welcome before he’s even found his feet under him. At the time, he wasn't in the right mindset at all, questioning his every move, unbelieving of what his eyes say he’s being gifted with and doubting, albeit reluctantly accepting every single shred of kindness thrown at him, for lack of another choice available.

Doing any differently would have spelled his downfall with a certainty that he feels uncomfortable admitting even to himself.

Now that he is in Logue Town, however, all the shackles of forced gratefulness and curteous manners fall off of him, leaving him free to explore just what the town has to offer.

And he’s just spotted a conveniently placed victim in his vicinity.

Buggy’s Haki is flaring to cover the street and, sensing no one stronger than an average citizen has the right to be, he lets it cloak around the area, an extra piece of security for the clown’s next actions.

Shouldering the bag a little higher on his back and letting his right hand dangle besides his trouser pocket, he leans sideways against a wall opposite the obviously rich and obnoxiously loud man who's complaining loudly to a shopkeeper about something or the other in front of the store.

The man’s gesticulating around widely, his arms and hands underlining whatever point he’s trying to make, but Buggy’s eyes have been drawn to the bag sitting innocently at the man’s side, directly in front of a sack of potatoes in the shop front’s right hand corner, ripe for the grabbing.

Buggy’s not interested in paying attention to what exactly is being said, when he has to be aware of anyone so much as glancing in his direction.

Only once he ascertains that the coast is clear does he remove his hand from his wrist to let it glide to the floor right besides him, shoving the handless wrist into his pocket, ostensibly, for any passers-by paying a smidgen of attention to him, with his hand attached.

Instead, the hand’s job was to sneakily glide over to the man and… with finesse… and no one else looking at the man’s bag on the floor at all… open said bag and dive right in, silently and excruciatingly slowly feeling around for anything of value inside, and leaving a slightly wider opening in its wake.

Should the man suddenly decide to pick it up and sling it over his shoulder, Buggy’s efforts would have been for naught.

Thus, the clown pirate leisurely ambles over, seemingly wanting to diffuse the situation, saying, “What’s the matter, my good sir?” and keeping the rich guy’s focus on the conversation, with one part of Buggy left aware of his hand’s every motion in the bag.

“Who’re you? Mind your own business!” the arrogant man scoffs in his direction, not giving him the time of day to get another word in and switching his focus on the shopkeeper again.

“And you! I _will_ report you to the marines, should this go on for any longer, mark my words! Next time, you _will_ pay, or I’ll bring some of the guards with me! Maybe they’ll help convince you that paying rent is not something you can just get out of willy-nilly!” the man with the expensive clothing style spits out, then turns around, grabs the bag roughly with one hand and walks off.

A rich guy aiming to get richer on the backs of – Buggy glances at the shopkeeper from the corner of his eyes – poor men.

That’s always been Logue Town’s biggest problem, entrenched in piracy as the town had been in his old lifetime.

Meh, he got what he came here for.

Letting his hand – which has just barely managed to escape the folds of the rich guy’s bag before the asshole grabbed it – float out from the sack of potatoes to come to a rest behind another stand of the shop’s where several tomatoes were lying in a cardboard box, he moves towards it, loudly admiring the wares as he goes.

“Oh, now that’s a pretty decent batch of tomatoes. What do you charge for one of them?”

“Ah, uhm. They’re a hundred Beri a piece, meneer.” The East Blue’s preferred word for “sir” serves to put Buggy more at ease.

How many years has it been, since he’s last been to the calmest of the Blues?

It feels like an old home welcoming him back to the fold.

Heart a little bit lighter, he pays the price with the money Kendal has given him.

His currently useless wrist is still residing in his trousers’ pocket, the hand floating on the floor just behind the stand.

“What else do you have on offer? I heard the mikans are in season again?” Buggy asks the still mildly perplexed shopkeeper, putting on a curious expression.

As the shopkeeper bustles inside the shop to grab some of the sweet citrus fruits for him, Buggy ambles past the stand, letting his Haki roam over the place and the street and, upon receiving the information that no one is looking at him at the moment, quickly reattaching his hand to his wrist behind the shopkeeper’s back, a money pouch with a considerable amount of Beri residing within jingling in his hand.

Satisfied that a lack of money would not be a problem for him in the near future, he buys three mikans and takes his leave.

The smile on his face has a slightly more genuine feel to it.

* * *

Looking for clothes that fit him is the second point on his agenda for the day.

While he doesn’t mind walking around in borrowed clothes, especially old ones the previous owner doesn’t want back, he is striving to make an impression on the people he’ll meet.

Clothes that fit him, which he actually likes and which don’t make him feel like a charity case? A definite bonus, in his book.

Say what you want about him, but Buggy the Clown has always been known for his memorable appearances anywhere he goes.

Besides, suitable garments are a vital asset in any fight he might get into.

Can’t have anything accidentally catch on something and make him lose his footing all of a sudden. That could prove fatal.

The “Clothes Emporium” is the next stop that he makes a beeline for.

* * *

“Welcome!” an oily voice greets him jubilantly.

“… hello.” The clown can’t help but be suspicious of such a cheerful greeting thrown at him.

“Can I help you with anything? Are you looking for anything in particular?” the shopkeeper asks eagerly, inviting him to enter the shop proper.

The door falls shut behind him, the little bell over it jingling cheerily.

“I’m… erm. I need some gloves.” Way to go Buggy, stating the obvious in a shop called “The Glove Factory”.

The shopkeeper takes no notice of his reluctance for sharing more, steamrolling right over him with his questions, “What material would you like the gloves to have? Do you prefer them having an inseam?”

In response, Buggy’s all business, adapting to the shopkeeper’s professional air and asking in a serious tone of voice, “The last ones I’ve had were erm.” He frowns, before continuing slightly more hesitantly, “What’s the material called again…?”

“Ah, look no further, here’s our catalogue, in it we have all the materials listed that we can use for creating the glove of your dreams.” The shopkeeper puts a thick book onto the counter with care and his shoulders relax.

Obviously, he’s misjudged the situation. This person only wanted to sell him the inventory after all, no need to get suspicious.

Curious about what their inventory includes at this point in time, Buggy peruses the catalogue with fascination.

Surprised at what he finds, he goes over the list with a finger, just to make sure. Truly, The Glove Factory never ceases to amaze him!

Even this far into the past, it does its name justice and boasts proudly about its success in terms of customer satisfaction to anyone in listening range – and their material range is out of this world, as he’s come to expect of the company in the future.

“Ah, that one!” Buggy’s eyes light up when he spots his preferred cloth choice.

“Oh, an excellent choice, meneer!” the word rarely fails to make him feel at home and once more he is reminded just why that part of the world feels the most welcoming to him and his.

Unconsciously and without his doing, his body relaxes yet further as he’s regaled with a collection of his choice’s characteristics that the shopkeeper is able to rattle of off the top of his head, apparently.

“Sturdy, but still durable! This material lets you explore the full range of motion – I can see I’m dealing with a connoisseur of the matter, here.”

A North Blue word thrown in for good measure? Eh, why not. It’s not like pirates from anywhere in the world are a rarity here, so why would he expect a shopkeeper not to have a preference when it comes to the language spoken? Buggy idly muses if the shopkeeper’s family tree has some North Blue ancestry in it.

“Ah, I’ve just… had a few incidents where my gloves being made of the right material proved worthwhile, is all.” Buggy deflects, thinking of fights and swords and knives sliding out of his grip and lessons learned over the time of a lifespan.

“How long would you say you’d need to make some gloves for me?”

“Ah, I’ll need to measure your hands first, come over here and place them briefly down on the counter for me, please. … Yes, thank you.”

The shopkeeper, a man called Sulari, according to his nametag, puts a finger to his chin in contemplation after the measuring is done. “A day? Yes, a day should do. If you could just fill out this sheet here, so we can make the proper arrangements… then you can come back here tomorrow and pick them up.”

Then, a slightly challenging look enters the shopkeeper’s eyes, and he puts a hand onto the sheet before Buggy can pick it up to look it over. “You will need to make a deposit, first, though. Seeing as the material is quite expensive, we like to err on the side of caution, you understand?”

Buggy pauses, reassessing his first impression of the man as correct. The menacing look doesn’t suit him much, but the pirate knows a lot of people look more innocent at first glance than they are in reality. This man gives Buggy the impression that he’s gone over bodies to get a step further towards realising his goals.

“… I’m aware.”

And he is. Good thing that he is indeed very aware of their methods of doing business already too, or he wouldn’t have known to ~~steal~~ bring as much money with him before he entered the building.

Pulling out ~~the~~ _his_ money pouch, he counts out the exact amount he’d had to deposit last time. With a raised eyebrow, he asks, lightly sardonically, “I think this is sufficient?” and has to smirk at the momentarily dumfounded look on the shopkeeper’s face.

* * *

Going to June’s cousin’s house on the other side of the island is proving almost too easy, to be frank.

After lunch, he makes his way into the area he knows her house ought to occupy and is startled when a voice nearby asks, “Mister, can I help you?”

“Hello. Uhm. Can you point me the way to this house?” Helpfully, he shows off the address he’s been given by June the other day.

“It’s supposed to be around this area somewhere?” he frowns at his own failure at finding it by himself, and his eyebrows draw together in frustration.

“Depends on who’s asking?” the delicate eyebrow that’s raised in challenge answers just how well-acquainted the woman is with June’s cousin. One possible conclusion: this woman is Ludy, herself.

“Oh. Uhm. The name’s Buggy.” He says, not knowing how to react in the face of such suspicion thrown at him at first. Then he retraces his steps mentally and is tempted to groan if he wasn’t in company. With his fitting, new clothes and otherwise ragged appearance he must look quite the sight once more, ne? No wonder she’s not sure if she even so much as _wants_ to tell him where Ludy lives!

“Ah, you’re the houseguest!” she exclaims, face brightening up in recognition.

Bemused, he blinks twice. Houseguest?

“June’s told me about you! I’m Ludy, nice to meet you!” she holds out her hand to shake. Perplexed, Buggy shakes it mechanically. “C’mon, this way!” the woman indicates with a tilt of the head, a basket of vegetables he didn’t see before under her other arm.

No. Oh no. He didn’t want to impose, _again_ – but she doesn’t leave him a choice and moves off, making him hurry to keep up. The clown doesn’t find his voice again for the short while spent hastening after her.

Arriving at a small farm, she calls out as soon as she’s through the door, “Haro! I’m back! I brought Buggy with me!” Did June and the others tell his name to everyone they know? Slightly exasperated, his shoulders fall, resigned to the fact. It’s not as if he can do anything against it, in this case.

Something unintelligible sounds from somewhere further into the house. “Eddie? If you want any juice, I suggest you come down _now_!” she shouts and disappears through a door, one presumably leading into the kitchen.

Buggy’s left to awkwardly stand in what he recognises as the living room, while she is heard putting away the basket of vegetables.

Done with that, Ludy looks out through the door at him, asking “Juice or coffee? Tea?”

“Ah, uhm. Coffee would be nice…?” In the blink of an eye, her face is gone again.

Gingerly, he sits down at the lone table, the door to the kitchen to his left and the entryway directly in front of him. The wall at his back reassures him further. There’s a hallway with the tips of a staircase peeking out to the left, diagonally behind Buggy, presumably leading further into the house, where he thinks Ludy’s other housemates are at the moment.

But he Buggy has to deal with problems of a different kind right now. The night that he’s spent not sleeping is starting to catch up to him. He’ll crash soon, he knows, and sitting down didn't do him any favours in the endeavour of staying awake. Hopefully he’ll be out of their hair by the time his body's starting to nod off and shut down.

Ludy’s plans have a different goal in mind and she makes a beeline for him when she exits the kitchen once more, cradling something in her hands alongside a cup of coffee on a saucer. “Here, I brought the Den Den Mushi with me. June made sure to remind me that you ought to call her as soon as you arrive.” Her eye-roll is fondly exasperated at the other woman’s mothering tendencies and the cup is set down on the table in front of him.

“Ah. Right.” Buggy nods and she’s hitting in the number to call her cousin before he can say anything else.

The speed with which her cousin picks up makes the clown pirate think she might’ve been somewhere in the near vicinity of the Den Den already.

Ludy jumps right in and tells her, “June! How are you? I got someone here who’s supposed to call you!”

That's his cue. “Erm. Hello?” Frankly, Buggy isn’t sure what else he is supposed to say when she turns to him and holds the Den Den Mushi under his nose, sitting down to his left hand side at the table.

June’s answer makes him think it doesn’t matter that much if he doesn’t introduce himself any more elaborately, “Buggy! Nice to hear from you! How was the journey? Did you find Ludy’s farm alright?”

“Yeah, I didn’t have that much trouble with that.” he has to admit, with a sheepish grin thrown at Ludy, going on to say, “I did anticipate more problems, so I spent the night at a hotel. The merchants brought me here yesterday, actually.”

“Ah, so you did a little sightseeing in the meantime?” she assumes. Well, Buggy supposes one could call it that.

Something is moving sideways in the periphery of his vision, right behind Ludy’s back, and he tilts his head a little to the side to see better, only to have his eyes land on a youngster sneaking from the staircase into the kitchen. To get himself some juice, presumably, although why the sneaking is necessary, Buggy can’t begin to fathom. The clown doesn't draw Ludy's attention to it.

“Yeah, I saw a bit of Logue Town on my own already.” he continues with, instead. Considering his experience in the East Blue, he’d wager he’s seen all of the town by now. To be honest, it’s not that it will change all that much in twenty years’ time, unlike other places.

“It’s a busy town.” He leaves it at that.

Ludy snorts, “Yeah, we have all sorts of people entering and exiting it all the time.”

The former pirate captain raises an eyebrow at her bluntness, daring her to elaborate, but before she can, June jumps in to remind him, “Buggy, did you give Ludy the letter already?” Ah. Right. That is still on his to-do-list.

“No, not yet.” he replies apologetically, “But I have it with me. I’ll hand it to her after the call.”

“Ah, thank you very much for that! You’ve done us a huge favour with this!” June’s voice sounds relieved. Did she think he’d lose it on the way? … to be fair, he’s not made the best first impression on anyone back on Drum, has he, what with him arriving with seastone handcuffs around his wrists?

“It’s no problem for me. I wanted to go to the East Blue anyways… so I didn’t mind.” Buggy shakes his head, hoping to get rid of the notion that he’s done this for any reasons other than his gratefulness towards them and their actions back on Drum.

“Well, in any case, Ludy? I know I’ve already asked once, but could you set Buggy up with anything he might need?”

Wait, what?

His thoughts ground to a halt and he can only utter a confused “Eeee?” going on to say, “But that’s not- I don’t- It’s not necessary for you to-“

Only for June to interrupt him mid-stutter, “Oh humbug! You’ll accept the help when it’s freely given or I’ll have Ludy give you chores to do!”

His mouth shuts with a clack at that threat.

 _Chores_?

Eyes wide, his knee-jerk, “Yes ma’m!” is out before he can think about it because it's been drilled into him more than half a lifetime ago, and he warily waits if anything else is forthcoming.

In his mind, the thoughts tumble over each other in confusion.

He’s not- Since when does he- Why do people-

 _Chores_?!?

Ludy picks up the strands of conversation effortlessly, leaving him to flounder on his own, “I’ll make sure he’ll get whatever he’ll need, you don’t need to worry about that. Now, let me know about the latest gossip on Drum. What's this about Lady Lyra getting her hands on a lover? I heard it from Maara and you know how she is~”

The woman picks up the Den Den Mushi and goes over to a coffee table, periodically glancing over at Buggy’s form that’s still sitting there at the table, frozen in shocked, albeit resigned acceptance of the situation as it has presented itself to him right now.

So they insist on being helpful even if he doesn’t really need them?

A sigh escapes him.

He is a grown man!

…but a little help every now and then is nice. And knowing who to turn to when things get dire…

It’s a good thing, all considered.

Doesn’t mean he has to like the prospect of _chores_ thrown at him, though.

In retrospect, the boy’s sneaking makes a lot more sense, from what he can tell now.

* * *

The coffee is nice. He is sat outside, in one of the chairs bordering the wall of the café, with a little table adjacent to it and sipping at his drink. Buggy has time on his hands, now.

Leisurely, he lets his eyes roam over the people passing him by on the street. Slightly hidden behind the bush planted in a pot that reaches up to his knees, he’s claimed the outermost seat for himself. No need for anyone to immediately see him, when he’s trying to remain inconspicuous for the time being.

When was the last time that he could sit by himself and enjoy a nice cup of coffee in peace, like this?

It’s been too long, he thinks to himself, quietly scouring the area with his Haki.

No one coming even close to strength of the monsters he knows is nearby.

That’s… always been the draw for him, in the East Blue.

There is no one here who he needs to measure up to simply to ensure his continued survival, no one stupid enough to challenge the Powers-That-Be or the World Government.

Small-time pirates, yes, but those he can deal with.

Those he has learned how to handle decades ago.

The monsters of the world, however, with their Haki and Devil Fruitery and other craziness?

No, he’s fine with never meeting, never even setting eyes on one of those, ever again.

( _He’s including Roger in this, for all that he’s been like a mentor ~~, a father,~~ to him and Shanks_)

The café, with its lovely little view of a side-street leading off the main one, has become something of a favourite spot for him in the weeks he’s been there.

The time will come, and soon, when he’ll have to make a decision about what he is to do with the anticipated arrivals, whenever they come to Logue Town. But it’s not now. And he’s managed not to think of it too often, so far.

Concerning his initial assessment of the situation and of June’s cousin, he’s found out rather quickly that he’s been correct.

Ludy has put him to task on her farm in the weeks in-between, offering him free board and food in exchange and, well. Who was he to say no to that?

A free roof over his head and homemade food to boot? He’d have been a fool not to accept the offer, despite his awareness of his mental troubles nagging at him not to. There’s still two more weeks, at least, to bridge and what better to keep his mind and body occupied than helping out on a small farm?

A side-effect of that was that he got to know Ed – or Eddie, as Ludy’s the only one who can get away with calling the boy – and his obsession with pirates of all sorts. The boy was a bit much, sometimes, but Buggy's filed him under "a good person, all in all", enthusiasm for the Rhoomba Pirates and the Whitebeards and any others included.

The man called Haro didn’t appear to venture much outside of his room. Buggy’s not sure what he’s doing in there, but he’s not as stupid as to simply ask. Should his curiosity become too much, he can always pop off his hear and send it inside to check on the man’s continued survival, he knows.

Generously, Ludy’s even giving him pocket money to spend on whatever he wants to buy. The money that he makes on the side, whenever he manages to visit Logue Town, he carefully puts aside, for later, _for emergencies_ ~~,~~ _ ~~for when the time comes~~_.

And this way, he wouldn’t even meet Roger before he’d want to, barring the Pirate King exploring the quieter areas of Logue Town, a thought that seems obviously ridiculous to the former Roger Kaizoku.

As a result, he’s managed to push off the thought of dealing with anything to do with the future Pirate King and his younger self to the back of his mind.

Ludy is a marvellous task-setter, he’s come to realise, and can be a bit of a tyrant, should the tasks not be done to her satisfaction or should one want to bow out of helping prematurely and without a valid excuse ( _Ed’s sneaking through the room at her back makes yet more sense, in that regard_ ).

The woman – and her husband – are gearing up to create a business of their own and the stress of that endeavour is making itself known quite clearly.

The content of the letter? Her official certification for being a doctor, accredited by the Doctor’s Association of Drum.

Buggy couldn’t help but boggle at the news shortly after the call to June ended. The clown pirate hasn’t known anything about such an Association ever having been instated on Drum in his old lifetime.

Then again, Drum was not considered important enough to keep a constant eye on by him back then and he really needs to remedy that oversight.

As if he is in need of any more reasons for going back to that winter island.

Finishing his coffee, he stands up to head towards his temporary home, once more.

Time to get back to work.

* * *

The peace is not to last for long, not for him, Buggy knows.

“OY! Stand still, you! Come back here, you little thieves!” the shouts coming from a shop owner further up the street make him aware that something was happening. Absent-mindedly, he puts the tomato he’s been looking at back into the box. He can feel his hackles rising at the threats thrown at two specks of colour moving towards him.

“I’m gonna skin you alive! When I’m done with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born! Get back here, now!”

Buggy raises an eyebrow at the shop owner’s shouts and has to turn away with a hand over his mouth when he hears one of the persons he’s chasing call back, “Yeah, because that makes us want to stop, bleh!”

Then, he freezes. Because he recognises that voice, long may it have been since he last heard it.

And he ducks away, knowing what way the two will most likely use, brought forth directly from his memories of where their hideout had been located long, long ago, taking the route over the rooftops to shorten his way and cut them off, hopefully.

To do what, he’s not sure, but he needs to get to them, at least, to make sure they’re okay.

He only just makes it in time.

One of them – probably Buggy, Buggy’s always been the unlucky one of the two, tripping over stuff and in the way and vulnerable, – has fallen down and is lying prone on the floor, Shanks standing above him, trying to stare down a man _with a sword his hands_.

Buggy swears in his mind that one of these days he’ll teach them some sort of self-preservation instincts and if he has to hammer them into these two. His eye twitches and he lets himself fall down onto the garbage bin, upending it into the alley in-between the two parties.

The satisfying crash announces his appearance better than he could ever do himself.

“What did you threaten my boys with?” Oh, and he wants to take the words back as soon as he’s spoken them, as soon as they ring out into the alley, to be heard by everyone present. _Just why_ does his mouth insist on the worst possible moments to run away from him?

Internal turmoil or not, he lets nothing show on his face – for now – and tries to put some strength into his voice as he rudely declares, “When it was YOU who stole from THEM, all along?”

Buggy’s bluffing, naturally he’s bluffing, he’s always bluffing.

Standing there with one hand pointed at the assaulter, the other in his pocket, he wonders what the two kids behind him make of him.

Half of his attention is on his hand, which is floating besides younger-Buggy’s trouser pocket, the one place that Buggy himself used all the time to hide their spoils away in, when he’d been at that age. Unnoticed, the adult hand can quietly extract the money pouch from its hiding place and he lets it float towards the tight, ramshackle staircase leading up the wall behind the kids on the left of the alleyway.

He needs a distraction if he wants his plan to work.

With lighting speed, Buggy turns his head to the right and up, readying himself to defend against an unknown foe. Startled, both the kids’ and the assaulter’s eyes and his sword travel to where he’s looking at the perfectly innocent blue sky, creating the perfect window of time wherein he can safely, stealthily and quick as a mouse move his hand over the floor towards the shop owner’s feet where he lets it shadow the man for a few moments.

“What are you saying?!? Those two stole from ME!” the man catches himself and refocuses his anger on the boys, “My money pouch! Give it back now, or else!”

Confidently, Buggy interrupts, “I doubt they did! Those two don’t even have the skills, never mind them looking for a fight with someone like you! Why would they risk you beating them up?”

That was the truth. The shop owner was a beefy man, with muscles to show.

Resolving to tread carefully, Buggy immediately nullifies his determination with what he’s saying next, “No, it was you who stole from them, in the first place!” Mouth, please consult the brain first next time, yes?

The marines coming upon the scene almost make Buggy cry in relief. The audience is welcome – the shop owner turns slightly to glance at them and in that moment of distraction, with everyone taking in the scene, Buggy points at the shop owner, drawing everyone’s gazes first to his finger, then to the man standing in front of him and shouts out dramatically, “Just look at that hat in your hands! Is it not proof enough that you stole it from them?”

Meanwhile, he has his separated hand travel up along the outside of the unknowing man’s trouser leg and, hidden from scrutiny under the apron he’s wearing and the sword the man's still swinging around inexpertly, drawing the drawstring shut, he ties the pouch to the belt of the man.

Murmuring is starting up behind the man who tries to defend himself, “But they stole my money pouch! I don’t even want that hat, I just wanted to make them stop!” The man then proceeds to make the biggest mistake in his life and throws the hat he’s been clutching in his hand down into the mud.

He knows that hat.

Buggy knows that hat and who it belongs to, and he bristles, “Ts, that’s no way to treat someone else’s possessions!”

Next, a marine decides to throw in his two Beri and speaks up from behind the man, “What’s going on here?” during which Buggy has his hand steal back down to the floor, getting lost in a sea of bright and colourful shoe-wearing feet for the moment until he can safely reattach it.

The shopkeeper turns around at that to face the newly-arrived marines and accuse the kids, pointing at them helpfully, “These two street rats stole from me!” making them look up, alarmed.

Having an inkling of what the two scheming imps behind him are about to do, Buggy throws back a brief glance behind him at the two on the ground, hissing at them to “Stay!” and has his hand go alongside the wall, between the floor and the wall slowly, carefully, with no one looking at it.

The two kids, however, are too baffled by the scene to do much more than exchange a befuddled look with one another behind Buggy’s back and, willingly or not, do as he says.

The shop owner doesn’t let go of his accusation in the meantime, determined as he is to make his point to the marines in front of him, “They stole my money pouch! I demand that they give it back, now!”

With a lightly huffing laugh, Buggy idly comments, “They stole the money pouch that you’ve got hanging from your belt?”

“Yes, they stole it directly from my-“ and he cuts himself off as his hand goes to the spot where he knows the pouch hung until recently. Pausing, he says perplexed, “What?” and grabs the pouch, loosening the tie around his belt, freeing it to cradle it in his hand and look at it in utter befuddlement. The kids are looking at the man too, in shock, and that's when Buggy lightly steps to the side a bit and has his hand reattach itself to the wrist of the arm he dangles widely, carelessly at his side.

“That’s… my money pouch.” He says, eyes focused glassily on the item and all fight going out of him.

“Which these two boys allegedly stole.” Buggy languidly points at the two troublemakers behind him.

Silence descends on the alleyway and the crowd gathered.

“I believe an apology is in order?” with his head tilted to indicate the boys to be the addressees of said apology, Buggy stares pointedly at the hat that’s still lying on the ground.

“I… er.” With a shake of the head, the man turns around and moves off, the crowd parting to let him through, throwing his hands up in bewildered frustration at having… chased after two boys a propos of nothing, apparently.

The marine officer raises an eyebrow at Buggy, unsure what to make of the situation.

“No worries, I’ll deal with these two.” The clown pirate goes over to the two kids, picks them up by the lapels of their rundown, holey clothes, throws the marine a sunny little smile and walks out of the alleyway with the two in tow.

On the way out, they pass the hat on the ground and he relents his grip on the younger Buggy to let the boy quickly snatch it up before moving on.

Out of the corner of his mouth, he grumbles at them to “Play along, for now. I’ll tell you when we’re in the clear.”

A few streets away from the alleyway, at an unobserved spot close to the town’s port, he lets go of them as soon as he notices them starting to resist his hold.

Buggy huffs a little, annoyance masking his relief at their continued well-being, then gives the two of them a calculated look, saying, “Take care, you two. You’ll need to be sneakier, if you want to survive."

Letting this sink in, he waits a beat, before he says, "Ta!”

With a wave of his hand Buggy turns to walk off.

* * *

A few minutes of silence pass them by in which nothing of note happens, with the seagulls crying overhead.

They’re surprised, to say the least.

From their current location, they have a perfect view of the sea, and are not in the way of the workers moving cargo around, so they stay there for the few minutes it takes to regain their bearings.

Shanks is the first to speak.

“That’s it?”

“....”

“Saves us from that man and just walks off like that?”

“Shanks.”

“That can’t have been all! There’s probably something more.”

“Shanks!”

“C’mon Bugs, we’re gonna need to find another target, now.”

But the young boy is having none of it, tugging at Shanks’ sleeve insistently.

“ _Shanks_. I had the money in my pocket, I know I did.”

He’s looking up at Shanks imploringly.

“Up until I fell, I did, for sure.”

The boy is willing the other to understand the gravity of the situation, and goes on saying,

“Shanks, I didn’t even notice, when he stole the pouch from me.”

With glassy eyes, the younger looks at the ground between the two.

"I didn't even notice _when_ he stole the pouch from me."

The silence that makes its home between the two boy after this declaration is one filled with alarm more than anything.

A breeze goes through the area, a seagull taking off from a sailing ship's mast.

When the wind calms down again, the boys are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay XD finally, mini!Shanks and mini!Buggy appear on scene! You won't believe how LONG I've been waiting for this...
> 
> Chapter title was heavily inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoQuu7GPxAI).  
> Again, many thanks to [stereden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereden/pseuds/stereden) and [Turtletails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtletails/pseuds/Turtletails) for listening to my woes~ :D
> 
> Also, another 6k chapter out in two days' time. Don't expect me to do that again, I've already been keeping it up for ten days now, doing that for all previous chapters of this story... XD
> 
> Leave a comment if you're in the mood to?


	6. Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buggy and Shanks, Shanks and Buggy. It's always been the two of them, together.  
> Both of them are perplexed by the man that has apparently taken a liking to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buggy is the biggest troll of them all XD I love him~  
> Well, he's made himself _interesting_ to them now, hasn't he? He has to deal with the consequences that come up in the wake of that.
> 
> This chapter's NOT been the most cooperative when it came to trimming the length down a little... XD how exactly did _half_ of what I'd planned for this chapter extend to 6k words plus?
> 
> XD Don't mind the minor POV changes, they were necessary. *nods*  
> I might go over it again to fix smaller mistakes sometime soon, as for now I got too impatient and wanted to post it already!
> 
> Enjoy~

_The land is full of the ocean's misfits._

~Anthony T. Hincks

* * *

They are marching down a street, turning a corner sharply, in silence, side by side as they do nearly everything nowadays.

“So he stole it without you noticing, so what?” It’s Shanks who opens the conversation, a frown marring his face, hiding the full extent his feelings from the world. In fact, both of them are severely upset about what has transpired in that alleyway.

Nevertheless, this is nobody else’s business but theirs, really.

“It’s not like we’ll run into him again if we’re careful enough.” He goes on to say, dismissing the matter out of hand.

“Shanks.” Buggy interjects softly, trying to cut him off but being ignored for now as the red-haired boy steamrolls right over his utterance.

“Besides, that merchant ship’s gonna leave tomorrow, isn’t it? It’s not like we’re gonna stay here for much longer.” If that is meant as a reassurance for Buggy or for Shanks is anybody’s guess.

Dejectedly, Buggy sighs. The ten-year-old knows by now that nothing can get Shanks to stop in his tirade short of an apocalypse waiting to happen.

They come out to a view of the port and, immediately, the two of them freeze as they notice something missing. Something big and wide, which was supposed to have been there until the next day.

The merchant ship that they’d thought they’ve been hired as shipboys for isn’t anchored at the port any longer.

“Oy, move!” the two of them move to the side, more because of muscle memory and the voice’s tone than anything else.

They exchange a significant look between the two of them, before Shanks asks, trying his hardest to remain polite in spite of the shock running through him, “Erm, excuse me? Where’s the merchant ship that’s been anchored here?”

The burly man that’s passing them by with a heavy box in his hands looks over at them curiously, “Huh?” before he glances at where Shanks is pointing, “Oh, the big one? That’s left this morning. It’s going to Goa Kingdom, I believe.”

With every word, the boys’ eyes are growing bigger and, once more, alarmed looks are traded between them.

“It left?” Buggy asks, voice almost cracking at the punch that the information had dealt the two kids.

“Yeah, didn’t you hear me? Now move, out of the way with you! Can’t have street rats like you standing around willy-nilly wherever you like! This is a busy zone, you two! Shove off!” derisive laughter accompanies the hurtful words and the youngsters obey, albeit with reluctance born of years of defying local authority figures.

They hesitantly, both of them shocked to their core, walk over to another area of the port, not able to find their words again anytime soon.

Looking down as they shuffle along, they don’t notice a big, burly man with glasses and a slightly smaller man besides him – who is exuding an air that is no less charismatic, with his moustache and black hair and a red coat that reached his shoes, although the straw hat he is sporting is throwing his ensemble off a bit much, to be fair – talking to another man who is, quite obviously, selling them a ship.

* * *

“I’m back!” Buggy announces upon entering the living room through the front door, not knowing if anybody else is home, although by now he’s too used to saying that to care. East Blue manners are something that no one can forget anytime soon once they’re drilled into you.

He is rewarded with a polite but preoccupied-sounding “Oh, you’re back early. Everything go alright?” from Ludy who is sitting at the table, lots of papers and important-looking documents spread out in front of her.

“Yeah. I- yeah.” Buggy’s shoulders fall slightly, thinking back on the encounter. They’d been two volatile little bandits, hadn’t they?

His face goes blank at the repercussions that single meeting between the three of them could have now that he’s back in the past. What effects will this have on the future? Who knows what he’s done, simply by interfering the way that he did?

“… you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You okay?” The feminine voice sounds far away and Buggy fights to drag himself back to focus on the present moment. Ludy’s expression is one filled with slight concern, drawn as it is from the long nights the woman keeps pulling nowadays.

“I’m good, thanks.” The clown pirate deflects. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyways, should she probe further.

“Want a cup of coffee? I just made one.” Ludy suggests and his head starts nodding almost without his consent.

“Yeah. Good idea.” With that, Buggy is heading to the kitchen, where he makes a beeline for the origin of the coffee aroma wafting through the air.

Mechanically, he prepares himself a cup, his mind a mile away, one thought circulating back to the forefront of his thoughts every once in a while.

He doesn’t have a bounty.

Really, he can’t believe his bluff back in that alleyway has worked the way it did. But, then again, he can just go and say, “Hey I’m gonna take care of this, you can trust me!” and the marines in charge do.

They do!

Because they don’t know better.

Because they don’t see him as a pirate.

Because he isn’t one, in their eyes – because he doesn’t have a bounty.

 _Buggy the Clown_ doesn’t have a bounty.

Every time he keeps getting back to this one fact and it blows his mind.

He doesn’t have a bounty because he’s in the past, obviously, because he’s time-travelled, because no one’s… alive to have known him as a pirate.

Oh, and that thought, that thought just hurts, truth be known.

Automatically, he goes through the motions required of him for the rest of his day and arrives at his preparations for bed moments before he resurfaces from the blank state that his mind has fallen into again.

Yet, then again, he hasn’t got a bounty and that just about opens up a whole wealth of new options to choose from, doesn’t it?

It’s been _decades_ since his first bounty has been assigned to him.

That was-

Back then-

No.

Doesn’t matter if he’s grown older, the old memories still keep calling him back.

Most nights, he doesn’t end up sleeping and the bags under his eyes have long since gotten used to being disguised. Makeup is useful, that way.

That – his sleeplessness and the strange complacency he’s let himself get lulled into – is most probably the reason why he’s had that knee-jerk reaction of getting the two boys out of trouble – and they are boys, they _are_.

That evening, he goes to sleep with a head full of what-ifs and why-didn’t-Is and how-else-could-I-haves and he lies awake for far longer than he thinks he can stomach.

Midnight’s long since passed him by and the darkness shrouding the town has deepened a lot by the time that he remembers an old tale he used to listen to, from way back when the waves swayed him into sleep along with an old, rough voice, sounding out the words to the story being told carefully, as though remembering a time long since gone by in peace.

Once upon a time, there was an island named Elbaf, on which lived a bunch of giants. One day, a giant on the island went to slowly lay down in a comfortable spot he’d discovered in the woods.

When he was fully lying down on the soft, soft earthy ground, he quickly fell asleep and at this very spot in the woods, he slept deeply and dreamed a lot, of adventures he wanted to have and of islands he wanted to visit.

“And of the people he has yet to meet?” a young voice pipes up in his memory, without fail, always asking the same question at the same place in the middle of the story.

“And of the people he has yet to meet.” The rumbly, thick voice affirms with a smile that makes a moustache stand slightly up at the sides. A thick, red coat covers the man, the voice velvet-sounding in its baritone.

“Oh, and he snored so much that the trees shook!” the voice completes in his head, soothing Buggy with its memory alone. The imagery it conjures up is vivid, colourful and Buggy smiles.

In his mind, the voice keeps up a stream of rich descriptions and changes its pit every so often to suit the story’s inhabitants, and slowly but surely, the clown starts drifting off and falling asleep himself.

* * *

“So, that’s all that is left?” Shanks and Buggy are standing at a street corner, huddled together, carefully counting the money they have left over in the money pouch Buggy’s been carrying on his person.

It’s not much.

The fiasco with the shop owner the other day aside, they’ve never been wealthy to begin with.

“Street rats”, indeed.

The blue-haird boy admits grimly, face darkening with every word, “Yeah. If we don’t get more soon, we won’t be able to buy the stuff we need.” Like food. Or drinks.

Their resources really don’t leave a lot of room for choices, all in all. The need for new clothes has stopped factoring in a while ago already, other things being more vital to their continued survival.

Standing huddled together, the two of them don’t notice the person coming closer until someone bumps into Buggy all of a sudden. The money coins that are in the pouch, few as there are, fall to the ground with a cling-clang of soft noise, rolling this way and that.

“Oy! Watch where you’re going!” the person shouts at them rudely, making the two of them look up briefly, before they spring into action.

“We could say that of you!” Shanks snarks back, hackles rising, while his companion bows down to gather up the money coins hastily.

Then someone steps down on Buggy’s hand, hard, and Shanks sees red.

* * *

All in all, working on the farm is going alright for Buggy. Loathe is he to admit it, but he’s settled down somewhat and he can almost say he’s content, these days.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t trust the momentary calm in his life one bit and his nights are filled with nightmares galore.

But on the surface? His life in Logue Town looks nice, like something he could’ve aspired to, all these years ago when he’d been left stranded-

No.

No use thinking about the past.

Water below the bridge, and all that, isn’t it?

But he’s always known it won’t last and that was the crux of it.

With the two of them this close? He is happy to manage to fall asleep at all.

Buggy hasn’t counted on the two of them appearing in front of him for real and especially not now.

After all those weeks that passed him by, he’s been sure he’d only get to meet Shanks, if he was lucky enough to do so at all.

Meeting his younger self has fallen lower and lower on his list of priorities the more time has passed him by, until he’s convinced himself that the boy wouldn’t even exist.

What with him there as proof of one version of Buggy existing, he’d thought it’d create a paradox if the boy did as well – or would it create different realities, in that case? His head is hurting already.

Isn’t there something in the rules of the universe that prevents two Devil Fruits of the same kind coexisting at the same time? Why should it be any different at all when it concerns actual human beings?

The fault in his thinking has been pointed out by the universe that day when he’d not only saved Shanks, but also a boy who he now believes to have been a younger version of himself.

And he knows where they’ve been living, and if he’s not wrong then… they’ll soon run out of food.

There was that one week where – way back when Shanks and he were young – they had trouble finding _anything_ to eat…

Buggy’s not sure if they’d accept-

But what if he doesn’t help-

Will they get hurt if-

He sighs, annoyed.

He’ll have to wait.

He’ll be patient.

Time will tell.

* * *

Shanks’ skin itches irritatingly and he scratches at it, a blue eye the least of his worries.

Buggy’s hand’s blue and bruised, and something’s potentially broken in it. The blue mess of it makes it hard to judge and neither Shanks nor Buggy have learned anything substantial about first-aid measures or medicine yet. The younger boy puts it into his pocket, trying to keep it still as much as possible. The forced immobility lightens the pain, so that is something to be glad of already.

The blue-haired boy can’t help but glance at the pocket every now and again to see whether anything’s changed yet. No, it still hurts. Great.

Suddenly Shanks stops, making him look up in askance.

The red-haired boy is staring straight ahead, saying, “That’s. Isn’t that… him?”

He doesn’t need to point at the man.

Buggy knows who he means and he already kind of hates that the two of them share the same hair colour. Although, to be honest, he kind of likes that their noses look the same. It makes him feel less singled-out in a crowd, having another person with this big of a round red nose running around.

“Should we…?” Shanks hesitates, wavering between two decisions.

“You sure?” Buggy asks, “We only just lost a fight. You really wanna get into another one?” And then, because he can’t help himself and because he really has no idea what they’re dealing with here, he adds, “With him?”

“I don’t see how else we can get more money, not with him there.” Shanks objects. Both of them suspect by now that the man doesn’t want them stealing from other people and would probably keep them from being successful should they go for it, again.

The blue-haired boy breathes in, then blows the breath out calmly and agrees, “Alright.” and, unknown to him, seals their fate.

* * *

“Oy! What’re you trying to do, here?” the blue-haired man glares at Buggy, making him gulp in apprehension and his stomach turn in anticipation of what’s to come.

The man has his uninjured hand in a deathly grip, mere inches from his trouser pocket. Caught red-handed and wide-eyed, any fight he still had within him leaves the boy and he lets himself be manhandled to the side of the street.

“Hey, let go of him!” Shanks moves between the two, making the man release his hand. Buggy notices the man’s eyes glance to his side, where his other hand is still resting in his pocket and he’s not sure what the man’s thinking, just that it can’t be anything good. It never is.

The man’s eyes narrow and he commands them, “You two, come with me.”

They’re- No. What?

That almost seems like an invitation, to Buggy, but for what, he’s got no idea. After a quick look shared between them – _Let’s see? Yeah, okay_ –, they follow him at a distance that they judge safe to run away from without the man being able to grab a hold of them, should they need to.

For about ten minutes, they walk through alleyways and side streets in silence, until the man stops.

At the back entrance to what they surmise is a restaurant, the man tells them to wait outside, he’ll be back immediately.

The two boys are more curious than apprehensive by now and their stomachs grumble a little in hopeful expectation that they try their best to squash – he wouldn’t get food for them, would he? No one is that generous, not after only having met them once.

When he comes out, he clutches two dark bag-like things in his hands. “Here.” he says and gives one to Buggy who upon first contact instantly realises it’s an ice bag. “For your hand.”

Then he turns to Shanks. “And for your eye.” And he hands the other one to Shanks, who reluctantly puts it to the darkening bruise there.

That’s… unexpected, to say the least. Their shoulders relax a tad, although they don’t let down their guard. Who knows what the man expects of them, in return?

“C’mon then.” the man says and leads them to a small playground that’s currently empty.

Then he proceeds to sit down on a bench and gestures for them to sit down on the bench next to it, which they reluctantly do.

For a few moments, they look out at birds that have gathered on the ground nearby. Pigeons are fighting for crumbs and cooing. A slight breeze moves through the leaves of some trees further off. It’s peaceful.

Expectedly, Shanks is the first who can’t stand it anymore, and stands up abruptly, turning to the man and forcefully asking “What’s your deal?”

His body’s trembling from the uncertainty cursing through him and he demands to know, “Why’re you helping us, like this? Who are you?”

The man looks at him evenly, calmly, and replies, “My name’s Buggy.”

Wait, what?

No.

That can’t be.

Both of them startle at that, looking at each other, one in wonder and the other in suspicion, as the man goes on to say, “I’m helping you because I know what it’s like to be in your position.”

Utterly flummoxed at this turn of events, Shanks hesitates to ask, “What… what do you mean?”

“You two seem to be down on your luck and I want to lend a helping hand, is all.” The man’s – “Buggy”’s? – explanation answers all their questions and none at all.

Clearly, it frustrates Shanks like rarely anything else manages to.

Buggy – the boy, for all that he can feel the truth in what they’re being told – is confused and opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the man speaks again, “Meet me here in” he breaks off briefly for what looks like a quick calculation done in his head, “three hours’ time? Yeah. Three hours sounds about right. I’ll have something for you two by then.”

With these words, the man jumps up from his seat, grins at them, says a cheerful “Later!” with a handwave and heads off, leaving two more-than-baffled individuals behind who’re still holding the ice bags to their injuries.

They blink, bemused, into the silence that permeates the area once the man is gone.

* * *

He has to admit to himself, strutting down the streets that have become long since familiar to him, that he has not felt this energized in ages. Relishing in the confusion he has wrought, Buggy thinks things might finally be looking up, for all of them.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, Buggy knows that he’s made himself _interesting_ in their eyes, particularly directly after he’s saved them from that overly enraged shop owner. In their eyes, he is someone to be watched, most probably.

However, that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to bear. Battling his paranoia down to acceptable levels has been… difficult, to say the least, especially once he’s left Drum.

With two shadows following his every move? Ah, but he may be a bit exaggerating this one, he hasn’t overtly felt them shadowing him, after all.

In any case, it is damn near impossible to not grow paranoid and it’s only his Haki that saves him from the constant looking over his shoulder to make sure he isn’t followed by a predator bigger than the two fry on his trail.

It’s not paranoia if you know there are people out there in the world that are after you.

If Buggy’s made it back here in the timeline, has a marine managed to do so, as well? Has an Admiral?

The former pirate captain can’t be certain of anything.

No, he doesn’t trust the momentary calm in his life one bit.

His fights with sleep-deprivation and nightmares haven’t absolved him of the notion that he’s got to guard his back.

Yet, he couldn’t help but notice the startling differences between the Shanks he’s known in his timeline and this one.

Has the redhead always been this quick to start a fight? This quick to oppose people and throw demands at their heads?

Buggy can’t quite remember, if he’s being honest with himself.

His feet lead him back to Ludy’s farm on autopilot. Buggy’s not-quite-thought-through plan is to grab some spare food he knows Ludy’s got lying around to bring to the boys, but on second thought, he might have found a better idea to go with it… now, how to bring that up to Ludy…?

Coming in through the doorway does not prepare him for Ludy’s excited announcement at all:

“I’ve been to the magistrate! I’m going to be a practising doctor starting tomorrow!”

Buggy’s eyes widen and Eddie cheers from the table, shouting, “That’s fantastic!”

“Well done.” Buggy stutters, half absent-mindedly still focused on the idea he’s had.

Yet, Ludy’s faster and she asks young Ed, all the while vibrating where she’s standing, energy aplenty all gathered within her tiny body, “Where’s Haro? I need to tell him all his work wasn’t for naught!”

Oh, so Haro’s been helping Ludy? The clown pirate thinks that Haro’s work might’ve involved background work for the doctor’s office application and whatever else Ludy might’ve needed help with to get to this point… he seems like the type to be interested in numbers and the background of work that’s involved in enterprising ventures.

Then again, Buggy hasn’t seen him around all that often, so he can’t judge from his brief glimpses into the man’s life.

“He’s in his room, I think.” Eddie informs Ludy who loses no time in traipsing – almost dancing – further into the house, presumably going to Haro’s room to tell him of the fortunate news.

Nodding to the boy, Buggy passes him by and goes up to his room, grabbing some of the money he’s accumulated to give to the boys, in case the second idea he’s had is rejected.

He’s got time, still, and he can ask Ludy about it later.

For now, a short nap might be in order, to regain some semblance of calm in the face of two boys – troublemakers, the two of them, he knows that much already, though that’s not news to him anyways – doing their utmost to involve themselves in his life.

About half an hour before the meeting time, he finds Ludy in the living room, nursing another cup of coffee.

“Ludy?” he opens up with, “Do you need more hands for your farm?”

The great thing about these people is that they don’t pose too many questions that are uncomfortable to answer. Ludy only asks, “What’s brought this on?”

Rubbing his neck, Buggy deflects, unwilling and not knowing how to go on and best explain to her what’s running through his mind, “I was just wondering…”

“Oh, is this about that family of yours?” Ludy’s been briefed about him looking for “his family” long ago already by Kendal, so refuting that would be ridiculous.

“Yeah, that uhm. Sorta.” Buggy can’t help but traipse around the matter, regardless.

In return, her full attention is on him now, and she asks, “They’ll be in town soon?”

He blinks once, and admits, “They kind of… are already in town.”

She’s quick on the uptake and leaves off questioning him any further for later. Instead, she goes to flood him with words, “Sure, of course! With the medical practice I’ll be opening tomorrow, I guess we do need more people to help with chores etc. on the farm…”

A little hesitantly, she asks, “Would they be willing to help out? All we can offer in return is, well, room and board? The same we’re doing for you right now…”

The woman sounds unsure if they’ll accept these conditions, but Buggy knows better. To be honest, to a younger him, that would have sounded like a heavenly suggestion, most probably.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Buggy tells her and goes on to ask, “Is it okay if I go and ask them?”

“Sure. Come back soon!” she waves a hand at him in a clear albeit not unkind dismissal and goes back to her documents.

Buggy’s shoulders relax in relief and he turns to head to the door, throwing a “See you later!” at the woman behind him.

* * *

Sitting down on the bench again, with the sack of food he’s bought and a bit of money in it besides him, he sighs. The situation is calm, peaceful even. Something he hasn’t felt before coming back, since way before the marines have ever gotten a hold of him back in East Blue.

Buggy really likes the East Blue and all that it offers the likes of him. Ludy and Kendal and the people on Drum rallying together for him are a huge bonus, but it doesn’t diminish just how fond he is of the so-called “weakest of the Blues”.

“Oy.” Shanks’ call alerts him to the fact that he’s got company. Buggy looks up, gives the two of them a soft smile and, if possible, succeeds in confusing them more. His smile turns into a slight smirk at that but he soon changes it back into its more harmless version again.

His mini-me is standing just behind the redhead, observing for now. Buggy can relate: he’s always been better at the lookout position than Shanks.

“What do you want?” it seems that Shanks can’t help but try and antagonise him. Not that it’s working any.

“Here.” Buggy nods his head over to the bag that’s sitting just sliiiiiiightly off to his right, far enough away that safely grabbing it wouldn’t be out of the question for them. “That’s for you.”

“What’s in there? A bomb?” the ever-suspicious boy demands to know.

Buggy has to laugh a little at the expected suspicion thrown his way, even though he’s a bit surprised at what the boy’s imagination conjured up. In a few years’ time, he’d probably have been right to assume that of him, but now? No, Buggy wasn’t out to blow anybody up anytime soon.

Shaking his head in a clear negative, he says, “Nah. Too loud for here.”

Not to mention the attention it’d attract. That’s something he can do without, for now.

“Just something I thought you could need.” he adds.

The boy comes closer, hesitatingly, skittishly, always looking at him and his relaxed posture and hands lying flat up in his lap, and grabs the sack quickly, before bringing it to the second bench that’s directly besides the one Buggy is sitting on.

The younger boy comes with him, and soon enough they’re both looking into the sack together. Buggy’s very aware that both are keeping half an eye out for suspicious movements coming from him. It’s funny, in a way. Was he this paranoid when he was younger? Well, he certainly is now.

He’s brought out of his thoughts when the blue-haired boy, obviously hungry, wants to put his hand into the sack and is halted by Shanks’ hand around his wrist.

The ginger turns to him, eyes narrowing as he asks, “Why so generous? Is it poisoned?”

Buggy doesn’t pause in answering them, “Nah. It’s good.” and shakes his head.

A few moments of silence reign over the three of them, intermittently broken by the cooing of the pigeons around the playground.

Then a soft, “Shanks.” disturbs the peace.

The younger of the two makes the red-haired boy half-turn back to him, keeping his eyes on Buggy, ever-vigilant of any danger thrown their way and says, “He’s okay.”

That’s… Buggy hasn’t had to use this particular code in more than a decade but he can vividly recall what it means to the two in front of him.

“He’s okay.” is way better than “he’s good” in this case. The latter of which he had to use a lot when he was younger to signal to Shanks that someone was good at lying.

“He’s okay.” means just that.

That – and only that – makes Shanks drop from his vigilant state to a somewhat more relaxed one.

Buggy looks at the pigeons picking at food rests in a nearby corner of the playground.

Scrutinizing Buggy closely, Shanks asks, “Then why?”

“Hm?” half-absentmindedly, Buggy turns his attention back to focus on the youngsters and their questions and asks, “Why what?”

“Why help us like this?” The clown pirate is very much aware of just how much Shanks keeps testing him, keeps trying to get at his motives, to find out what nefarious purpose that he’s concocted in his mind his actions seem to serve. Still, he gives them nothing, keeping quiet and seeing what they’ll throw at him.

“You said your name is Buggy. But I don’t believe you. ‘cause that’s _his_ name!” Shanks’ anger is visibly manufactured, and he obviously has to work at keeping it up as he points at the younger of the two in what looks to an outsider like quite the blustering outrage.

The blue-haired boy just softly mutters, “Shanks.” and is looking at the redhead as if he’s a train wreck waiting to happen.

Yet Shanks is not to be deterred and the other boy is ignored and left to glance nervously from Shanks to Buggy and back again.

“You know us.” Is the only conclusion Shanks can come to, sounding it out to himself and his audience, both of whom are captivated by his words, “You know Buggy. Just who are you?” This accusation bursts out of him, standing there trembling and tense in front of the second bench, while Buggy’s still sitting peaceably on the other one, looking over with almost disinterested eyes.

Another breeze goes through the leaves of the trees nearby.

Over there, in the corner, pigeons are still cooing.

“… You done?” Buggy asks, unfazed.

Both boys blink, startled into silence.

“You’re right.” Buggy allows with a nod, “I do have something more in mind. I have something to offer the two of you, if you’re in the mood to listen.”

He looks over at the two in askance and, upon receiving nothing more than their undivided attention, he goes on to say, “I have a job proposition to offer you: board and room in exchange for physical chores done on the farm for a friend of mine.”

Yes, Ludy’s earned the title “friend” by now, hasn’t she? For letting Buggy stay free of charge, for giving Buggy a starting point and a home – however temporary it may be – to return to, for doing all these things in return for, as much as Buggy has managed to surmise, almost nothing, chores and another helping hand on the farm aside.

Oh, it’s clear that Shanks is preparing himself to refuse on the spot, shoulders rising and mouth opening.

Before he can say anything, Buggy does. “Now. I understand it’s not the best offer you boys might get” – it’s most probably the _only_ serious one they’ve gotten so far, he knows – “But I don’t mind waiting until tomorrow, let’s say the morning? To hear your answer. We can meet again here at ten o’clock, if that’s alright for you two?”

He pointedly stares at the two of them – they confer quickly and quietly with nary a glance exchanged between them – and has them nod their heads cautiously in reply.

Another smile softens his features, before he jumps up – startling them out of whatever trance they’ve fallen into – salutes the two and walks off with a noticeable spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it, dear readers~  
> The bedtime story has been translated from the following website where you can find the story ["Der Schlafende Riese"](http://www.sagen.at/texte/maerchen/maerchen_oesterreich/tirol/zingerle_sdl/riese_schlafend.html) in all its German glory. Yes, I've translated it, yes I'll be using it again, so you can look forward to that~ ;) By the way, the website's highly recommendable to any German-learners out there: the tales that can be found on it are short, to the point and highly entertaining. :D
> 
> Special mention and kudos go to [stereden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereden/pseuds/stereden) and [Turtletails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtletails/pseuds/Turtletails) for listening to me complain about chapter lenth and whatnots in my attempt at cobbling together this chapter! :D Do check them out if you've got the time, they're both awesome fanfic authors!
> 
> Also, you've just finished looking at the last 6k of 114.000 words that I've put online on AO3 since DECEMBER 2019, folks. If that's not a milestone reached, I dunno what is :D (that's not including author's notes or anything else, that's JUST concerning the stories I've put online and updated since **DECEMBER 2019** \- and I'm not counting any stories I've moved over from ff.net in this either, guys!!! This chapter's been put online on the 08.05.2020 and I've put online the first story I'm counting in this on the 08.12.2019! That's 114k words put online (written, edited and updated) within the span of exactly six months - besides everything else I'm doing and that's been going on for me irl since then - and I'm bloody proud of that :D )  
> Cue me celebrating my own success by watching the One Piece DVDs I've found lying around in my flat, popcorn and all~
> 
> Leave a comment if you're in the mood to?


	7. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger did have a soothing effect on Buggy, he’s known that for a long, long time already, seen evidence of it time and again whenever he finds himself using techniques he knows he’s learned at Roger's hands. Now, he starts to suspect just how much of one the pirate legend has had to have had on Shanks, as well.
> 
> But Buggy's... different. Has _had to be_ , to become who he is and live for as long as he’s managed to, as a pirate captain in an era that’s less than forgiving of people choosing said occupation as their livelihood.
> 
> Roger became famous, yes, a legend in his lifetime. He died for it, too, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 hits passed me by, this chapter's end not in sight at all... well. I've decided to stop capping my chapters at 6k words, in exchange for it. Have a long one this time around? It's 10k plus and was a hell of a wild ride to write, so please don't get used to this. Particularly now that I've got a full-time job irl to take care of on top of this XD Yeah, I've been busy.  
> Short moment of me freaking out: this chapter's 20 pages in my word document O_ó how'd I manage that?!? It also makes up almost 1/4th of this story btw XD just for those of you interested in those things...
> 
> Hope you don't mind the POV changes, they were necessary to the formatting, the characters have decided. *nods*
> 
> What's ahead? Cursing, a breakdown (though nothing too graphic, I don't think? Please let me know if I ought to adjust my tags for anything), the boys and Buggy and a new development to take into consideration at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

_The short-lived crash and burn of an eternal optimist is far more deeply felt than the day-to-day misery of an eternal pessimist._

~Gregor Collins

* * *

When Buggy gets back to the farm, he helps Ludy and Haro with the chores, mechanically washing the dishes, his thoughts miles away.

To be honest, he doubts they’ll accept.

These two boys are much too paranoid right now – and Buggy knows that that’ll change over the years, with their exposure to the elements and to a few _unsavoury_ elements as well, but the biggest change, the one change that has stuck with Buggy all along? The one that managed to burst into his life like a firecracker and hasn’t left until years later?

That had been Roger.

Hunching his shoulders, the man tenses as he thinks the thought. Roger has given them what no one else in the world had up until that moment thought they’d need: safety, a home to come back to (and the Oro Jackson is still home, even after all those years have passed and it’s not even been _built_ yet) and people who they could be certain would protect them.

Well, up to a certain point, at least.

And while Buggy still can’t bring himself to forgive the Rogers or Roger himself for everything they’d put the two teenagers through while they’d been in their care - _no, forgiveness has had its chance, it’s not even possible for him to forgive them now, is it?_ –, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Keeping Buggy-and-Shanks away from them, away from his captain ( _ ~~his father~~_ ), their nakama, would that… doom anyone prematurely? His chest constricts, his breathing comes out heavily and his fingers start to shake.

He’s already thought about these, hasn’t he? About the possible consequences to his actions?

Glassily, he blinks down at the plate in his hands that he’s been drying off and pauses the action before his hands can break anything. Focusing on the plate and his hands, he separates the wrist from the arm and lets them float there for a moment, above the sink and with the plate in their grasp.

It’s Ludy’s plate.

Buggy’s a guest in her house right now – he can’t go and shatter a plate just because he feels like it, he has to act like an adult. ( _He can do that when he’s with his circus, ~~when he’s gathered himself a cr-~~_ )

His teeth clack together audibly.

Focus. Can’t be frustrated now, Buggy.

Not thinking is the better course of action.

Short of doing anything worse, this is the best way he knows to keep himself in the present, so he moves back a few steps – a brief sweep with his haki tells him no one’s currently in his vicinity, Ludy and Haro obsessed with numbers and young Eddie in his room giddy about some pirate or another and he can go wild for as long as he keeps quiet – and lets his hands float slightly upwards, to come to a halt above the sink.

Eyeing the ceiling of the kitchen critically, he moves one hand to test how far up it is, forming a fist before hitting it.

 _Tock_ , it knocks lightly against the ceiling.

Breath held in, Buggy waits.

Nothing.

A breeze blows across the window outside, swaying some leaves gently from side to side, and the darkness is spreading slightly as it covers the town bit by bit, but other than that, not a mouse can be heard.

He releases a sigh. His shoulders relax a tad and Buggy moves his focus back to his right hand that’s still holding the plate just above the sink. Lowering the other one to land right besides it, he swings the plate up and down a little, to see what it weighs and how the weight distributes itself in his grip at the movement.

Satisfied with the little preparation, he swings it down one more time, before pulling it back up with more force behind the move and letting go with a twist of his wrist and-

the plate’s spinning and flying up into the air to rise to the top of a beautiful arc and Buggy can see colours and colourful lights blinking at him from his periphery and _hear the shouts of his crew all cheering for him_ -

and his heart

f

a

l

l

s

and it’s falling to depths unknown, past his feet right into the ground, it feels like-

and then the plate’s falling and he prepares his left hand to catch it and it’s a heart-stopping moment, as it always is, a second too early and the plate might pass his closing hand by, a second too late and the plate will fall and shatter on the ground, and-

he catches it with a surety that comes from years of practicing the stunt, a breath gusting out of him at his success.

( _It feels like he’s catching his heart as well and it's lighter than it was earlier_ )

( _The demons are still lurking but they’re appeased for now_ )

( _He’ll come to regret delaying the inevitable soon_ )

His lungs are freed and expand in an inhale. Buggy knows the bullet well that he just dodged successfully, but it’s neither the time nor the place for it to bite him.

A smile, a genuine little thing, alights on his face. Cradling the plate safely in his left hand, the heaviness from earlier has left him almost entirely.

This is one of the simplest tricks in his arsenal, yet every time Buggy uses this arrangement of throwing one plate and catching it, it’s challenging him far more than if he uses a dozen of plates to do the same. Each and every time, it’s successful at breaking him out of a funk he’s gotten himself into and Buggy knows it’s a million times better than any alternative he could come up with.

Throwing off the cobwebs of the lingering doubts, Buggy is once more firmly anchored in the present. He knows it’s no use mulling over the past and the future and what-ifs when he can’t foresee how they’ll happen anyways.

The smile is chased away as quickly as it came.

On autopilot, he moves forward to the sink, reattaching his hands as he goes.

His haki is pinging at him, heralding Ludy’s approach seconds before the door to the kitchen opens.

He hasn’t told anyone back here about his Devil Fruit powers yet. No need to do that if he doesn’t have plans of staying longer than absolutely necessary, after all. Neither does anyone know about his haki, but that is something that Buggy has long-since gotten used to noone knowing about.

Zombie-like, she makes a beeline for the coffeemaker. Buggy blinks in bemusement, although it’s nothing new. He’s got a question to ask her, anyways, so he pushes the thoughts about her health to the side and forges on, keeping his hands busy by drying the plates that are still in the sink at the same time.

“Hey, Ludy?” he takes the answering grunt as an affirmative to go on, “I need to run an errand tomorrow morning, just so you know. I’m sorry I won’t be there for the morning prep of your office…” his words peter out, interspersed with a regretful tone towards the end.

Ludy appears to shake herself awake a little, and she says, “Ah, that’s alright. I’ve got Eddie, should we need any help. You’ll be here for lunch, though?”

“… Yeah. Thanks.” His answer comes out after a short pause – he’s debating whether or not to mention the elephant in the room that is Ludy’s obvious exhaustion, but decides against it. Buggy’s relieved that she doesn’t so much throw up a fuss about his own emotional state, for all that he does nothing to hide his inner turmoil from her at that point.

“No problem!” she grins and is off again, to do whatever needs doing for the office.

Buggy doesn’t so much try out another trick as he lets himself feel the weariness clawing at his bones.

For all that he’s interested in how the kids will reply to his offer, he retires early and manages to somehow fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

* * *

In another part of the town, sleep is a long way off for two young boys who are standing side-by-side in an alleyway, huddled together in front of a warehouse door.

“What the-?” Shanks’ hands are grasping at the handle of the metallic sliding door, trying and failing to gain them entry, “Why isn’t it opening? It was easy to open yesterday?”

Irritably, he lets go and scratches at his right arm instead, when the door doesn’t so much as budge an inch.

“Shanks! C’m’ere! Look!” his companion has, in an unattended moment, managed to scale a crate where he is now standing on to see into the warehouse through a small window higher up, beckoning Shanks closer with a hand. The redhead quickly climbs up, as well, to see what the other wants to show him.

The two of them squeeze tightly together to both have a good look into it. The warehouse inside is fairly busy, workers moving stuff left and right. The boys aren’t interested in that, however. More concerningly, the little area they’ve used to sleep in has been filled up to the ceiling with crates stacked on top of one another.

Having seen enough, Shanks turns away and jumps down from the crate. “….great.” is all that he says to that.

Buggy looks glassily, disappointedly, inside for a bit longer before he tears himself away from the window, turns around, shuffles to the edge, supports himself with a hand and jumps down himself.

“What do we do now?” he asks, shoulders falling. His face is unreadable, as is Shanks’. In the face of so many negative developments lately, they don’t even know how to react.

The redhead breathes in and releases a world-weary sigh.

“Guess we’ll have to find another place to sleep. C’mon, this town’s big. There ought to be a hole somewhere we can crawl into.”

Without a gesture to Buggy, he starts to walk off, the younger of the two following him on autopilot, his thoughts a mile away and his eyes glued to the floor in front of his feet. It’s the only thing that keeps him from tripping right now. Their feet shuffle along the cobblestones that soon peter out to be replaced by coarse earth.

They wander purposefully aimlessly past cafés with the crowd of people shielding them from overly curious gazes until the throng of people thins out and they are left alone, two boys traipsing alongside fields with cows on them. The fact that they’re alone, the two of them, in a world full of people, full of adults, that are by their very nature bigger than them and whose intentions are not always as straightforward as they’d like for them to be, is a constant presence on their minds, a continuous pressure weighing upon them.

Their eyes stare at nothing for a while until a cow mooing at them loudly snaps them out of it.

A meaningful look shared between them, and they are off.

A few hours of searching for a sleeping place that sufficiently shields them from the elements for that night yield them a small crevice behind an outhouse where two boards that are laying above it provide at least a perfunctory roof over their head. It’s hidden from sight and looks like it won’t break down on their heads while they sleep.

The clouds didn’t look like it’d rain any time soon during the day, so that’s one worry off their ever-growing list, at least.

For now, it’ll do.

The sun’s already trying to hide behind the horizon when they squeeze into the narrow space.

Neither one speaks for a while, both not yet sleepy enough to fall prey to slumber that easily, not after such a day of one event chasing the other. Buggy’s hand still smarts, as does Shanks’ eye.

“What do you think about… 'Buggy'… and his offer? Think he’s trying to betray us?” the blue-haired boy ventures to ask quietly at last, still unsettled by the man, although he knows he felt nothing but genuineness when he'd made the offer.

“Y’think he was being honest?” Shanks asks, again.

In response, Buggy shakes his head and says with as much conviction as he can muster, “I _know_ so.”

“… That still doesn’t tell us anything about _why_ he offered that.” Good to know that Shanks is still on the fence about it. The redhead isn’t the most cautious of the two of them, usually, but the fact that the man had called himself “Buggy”, of all the other names to choose from, and the way that he’s acted until now… well. Buggy supposes the next day’s meeting will tell them more about what they can come to expect of him.

The boy still isn’t sure what to feel about someone looking so much like he does sharing his name on top of the resemblance in appearance. Is that a coincidence? Fate?

Something niggles at him that it’s suspicious, at least. Incredibly so, too.

“Go to sleep, I’ll keep watch first.” Shanks orders. With a huff, Buggy notes that Shanks has a lot of thoughts running through his head, as well, right now. So many as not to make him able to get a shuteye anytime soon, apparently.

“We’ll change around midnight, yeah?” the younger boy asks with a frown, eyeing Shanks concernedly and suspiciously with equal measure.

“Yeah.” It’s almost like a promise, even with Shanks staring off into the distance, listening for anything out of place and scratching at his left arm and it’s enough to make Buggy shut his eyes and relax. For the moment, all is well.

* * *

They are sitting on the bench already when Buggy gets there. He stops a big enough distance away from the benches from where he can observe them a minute before he makes his appearance known – although he is certain that his younger self is already aware of his presence.

They’re still wary of him and the clown pirate doesn’t want to antagonise them further. They look like they haven’t slept a wink, both of them slumping against one another on that bench, with Buggy the younger leaning his head against Shanks' shoulder a bit. Douke no Buggy can make out the crow’s feet from where he’s standing and he frowns.

Slowly, he steps closer.

“We accept.” young Shanks and Buggy say in tandem, pre-emptively, before the pirate can even so much as open his mouth. These words make him come to an abrupt halt a short distance away from the two and their bench.

To say that Buggy’s surprised is an understatement.

He blinks.

That is... an unexpected development, albeit not an unwelcome one.

Buggy has come there prepared to argue with them about the possible benefits and advantages of accepting his offer – all the while knowing exactly how unsavoury a character he is presenting himself as at any given moment and uncomfortably aware of what it would look like to any outsider listening in.

An adult – an acquaintance at that – inviting two kids ( _who have barely reached their teens_ ) to come with him is something most parents take care to warn their children about.

An adult offering two streetrats like them _work_? That’s something most marines would find suspicious and immediately look into, should they get wind of it.

Or, well, in an ideal world, they would.

In the Logue Town of today, where Buggy is known as nothing more than a helper on Ludy's farm? This point in time has _nothing_ on the future, where even Buggy the clown and his crew only rarely venture into this particular town because people like Smoker will have set up camp here. Or would have. _Had_?

Forcefully pushing the grammatical implications of fucking _time travel_ aside, to be dealt with _later_ , Buggy allows himself to smile.

Two shoulders dare to relax almost imperceptibly.

Then his smile morphs into a smirk before it ends on a full-blown grin and their wariness rises a notch again in response.

Ludy will be happy to have two more people willing to help her out with her farm. What with her Grand Opening ahead, Haro and young Eddie will be needed at the office. Additional farmhands will be welcomed with open arms. It helps that Buggy has thought to ask Ludy before proposing it to the boys.

“Great. Where’s your stuff? We can go grab it now and-“ Buggy falsely starts, already knowing that they – most likely, judging from his own experiences – don’t own more than the clothes on their back.

“No need.” Shanks stands up, and the other boy follows him. “Go on. Lead the way.” he says and that alone tells Buggy a lot about the current state of affairs.

The redhead is putting up a brave front, although Buggy can see right through it, can see the scared barely-a-teenager seeping through the façade he puts up. The former captain eyes him for a moment, but doesn’t say a word and turns around, confident they’ll follow him with no more prompting than that.

The mask is put up for the younger Buggy's sake, he thinks to himself quietly as he is walking in front and doesn’t begrudge the boys that one bit, not when he himself has gotten the very same consideration from the very same redheaded boy as well, all those years ago ( _and all those years that followed later, as well. Time travel, urgh_ ).

The walk to Ludy's farm doesn’t take long and is spent in silence. Putting one measured step in front of the other, Buggy wonders what made them reconsider refusing the job offer. Are things more dire than Buggy thought?

A frown returns to settle on his face.

Well, Buggy has to consider that they won’t tell him, not now, when they don’t know him yet. No help musing about what they’ve been through when he won’t be told anytime soon.

First things first, their respective injuries need to be looked at and Buggy is good enough of an emergency medic that he should be able to do that himself. Should he need a second opinion, though, he knows exactly where to find it. Admittedly, that is reassuring him more than he's expected.

Opening the gate to the farm, the boys' nervousness spikes notably. They’ve been radiating their emotions from the get-go, for any idiot even remotely schooled in haki to make out loudly and clearly. Buggy’s frown deepens.

That won’t do, they can’t be kept unaware of the potential they could one day be expected to tap into, plus, in the wrong places, their unfiltered emotion broadcast may come to attract unwanted attention.

* * *

Shanks and Buggy know that they could very well be following a murderer to the place of their demise, for all that the man hasn’t so far made any move that justifies their suspicions. That doesn’t mean he won’t, though, and both boys are uncomfortably aware of that.

In light of that, they remain cautious, courting danger – one brazenly, the other more reluctantly – like they’ve learned to do since they ended up together on that merchant’s vessel all those months ago. After all, two pairs of eyes have already proven to be more reliable than one more times than they can count on both hands.

Their sparse belongings consist of the clothes on their backs, and that’s it.

Weeeeell.

There is that sack with the more-than-tempting content in it that they haven’t so much as dared lay a finger on since they’ve been presented with it, and there are the two cool bags the stranger has given them before. But that’s all they’re carrying and they’re not even sure if it’s theirs or on loan.

Are they supposed to pay the man back? No one’s _that_ generous.

The back they’re following doesn’t tell them a thing, though, and the silence stretches until they reach a gate that the guy is obviously familiar with, judging from the way he easily pushes it open as if it’s become a habit already.

Shanks' shoulders tense in anticipation and besides him he can sense Buggy do the same. Are they going to see the man’s true colours here?

Despite their uneasiness, they valiantly march on, following the man onto the premises of what is supposedly one of the man’s “friends' farm”. When the man stops shortly after and turns to them to incline his head towards the gate – an obvious command to close it behind them in the gesture – it’s Buggy who complies with it and that’s the only thing that keeps Shanks from bristling at the way the man keeps ordering them around.

The gate falling shut feels more ominous than it should, really, especially when it doesn’t even reach Shanks' shoulders and they could easily jump over it to escape, should they need to.

Satisfied, the stranger turns back to lead the way towards the building. He hasn’t been kidding about the “farm” bit, at least. The ramshackle house wouldn’t qualify for much else, in Shanks' opinion.

A blink of the eye later and they are led through the front door. Unexpectedly, the inside that greets them looks... peaceful. Tranquil. And a wealth of words that neither of the two know of yet.

It’s everything they didn’t dare think of and, for a moment or two, the stark contrast between what they thought they’d see upon arriving and what the place that the man got them to accompany him to actually looks like throws them. Bemused, all they manage to do at first is close the door behind them and breathe.

In comparison to the humble, rustic wooden interior, the blue-haired man looks downright overdressed, what with his white gloves, the shiny, polished black dress shoes and his simple-ish outfit consisting of loose rusty-red trousers and a fitted white shirt. He looks utterly out of place, ridiculously so.

Shanks frowns. Something’s not quite right, there. Glancing over at his companion, it would seem that Buggy shares his opinion, if he reads the brows that are drawn together on the younger boy’s forehead right.

Then again, that’s the man’s friend’s farm, isn’t it? Foreheads smooth out as they consider that as the reason behind the stranger’s clear non-belonging. They simply assume that his home will be different and are happy to dig no further than that.

With a swivel on the spot, all of a sudden the subject of their thoughts turns to them. Arms akimbo, they’re loathe to admit that he towers above them as they regard him warily. With them only just having reached their teenage years, he’s bigger than them by at least a head and a half ( _conceding – even just in their heads – that there's more of a height difference between them is something that makes their pride sting_ ).

Warily, they regard him for what he’ll be telling them next, ready to bolt out the door – that one’s _not_ locked, Shanks has made sure not to have the bolt slide into place when he closed it, so it’s just leaning closed for now – at the first hint of danger.

* * *

Narrowing his eyes at the two, he doesn’t say a thing at first, letting the silence stretch for a few more moments. It’s painfully obvious to him that the two are only waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yes, definitely: injuries first, then they can talk shop.

Without further ado, he turns to the side and heads into the kitchen, leaving two bewildered boys in his wake. Letting his haki stretch out while he’s rummaging through the shelves for the supplies he’ll need, he ascertains that they’re alone, for now. Good. Less chance of an interruption, that way.

His stomach turns as he contemplates what he’ll need to do next. They’ll have to be informed that they’re welcome to help on the farm in exchange for a roof over their heads and free food. That’s what they’ve agreed to, after all, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise.

Frowning, Buggy finally takes note of something of a quandary that he’s placed himself in, for he hasn’t really planned what they’ll need to do next…

Well, the three of them will most probably have to wait for Ludy to appear and assign the boys a room – just like she’s done for him.

Deep in thought, he pauses to figure out a better solution, because he has the niggling feeling that Ludy or any of the others won’t be home until late that evening – it's the big opening day, isn’t it? That would make sense…

Maybe it’d be better for the boys to be rooming with him for the time being? That might be the more sensible solution, actually, seeing as there’s not much space in the house to begin with and that way they won’t bother the rest of the habitants. The pirate captain supposes that he can always move into a room in town if push comes to shove.

Ludy and her folks have already extended far more than a helping hand towards him, after all, and it’s not like he’ll need any more of that. It’s given him something to do while he’s been waiting for the two to arrive, that’s true, but other than that… hmmm.

Buggy’s not sure where to go from here, frankly.

He supposes he’ll be… _lost_ , again, not that that prospect’s too appealing. Lost and alone and _by himself and he **misses**_ -

No.

Stop.

Stomach roiling unpleasantly, he shudders out a few breaths, grabs the counter and holds on tightly to get a grip on himself again. No use thinking about the _after_. That’s for later.

There’s the two boys to think of, now. They’re not gonna get settled in by themselves.

Shaking his head, he looks around for something to concentrate on so as to be able to come back to the present. It won't help anyone if he loses himself to his mind at the moment and sooner or later, if he’ll make them wait for too long by themselves, they’ll become even more suspicious of him than they already are.

There’s no sense in asking for yet more things to deal with.

A plate innocently sitting to the side of his hand catches his attention. His eyes trace the plate’s contours slowly, remembering the moment from earlier, where he’s had it in his hands and juggled it successfully that one, single, time. Letting his mind drift back to that point for but a few seconds, his hand relaxes noticeably as his glance traces the way the plate's floated through the air. His shoulders become more relaxed by the minute. He exhales noisily.

Gritting his teeth to stave off any more of _those_ thoughts, he gathers up his supplies and heads out.

Two heads snap around to have two pairs of eyes focus on him immediately upon entering the living room. They’ve sat down at the table and gotten comfortable for the time being, it seems.

Good. With a small nod, he heads towards them.

* * *

They have taken seats around a corner edge of the table, not daring to venture further into the room than that, but exhausted from the day already. Sitting down at a table is not showing more weaknesses than they can afford right now, so it was an acceptable solution for resting their tired bodies a little bit. Both tense up, hackles rising once more, when the man re-enters the room, a small basket tucked under one arm and the other dangling aimlessly at his side.

They hesitate to extend their trust to him, even after all he’s done for them so far. When he simply ambles closer and closer to them, their bodies tense up further in anticipation of what he’ll do next. Both of them regard him with hawk eyes, watching his every movement attentively.

Instead of making a beeline for another of the chairs left, he kneels down in front of the two of them unexpectedly.

Both their eyebrows rise to their foreheads and they briefly throw a look at each other before turning back to the man who’s taken to calmly mustering them.

The man inhales deeply, the air visibly filling his chest, then he holds it in for a moment before he blows it all out at once. The two boys just look on in askance, waiting for what’ll be next.

The left side of the man’s lip twitches. Is he amused? Shanks' brows furrow together. The redhead can’t figure him out and it makes his blood boil to be sitting here, at the mercy of the man who’s led them to this house, when he’s pretty sure by now that the man knows all about their rather pitiable situation and the lackadaisical circumstances surrounding it. Why else would he call himself “Buggy” to their faces that brazenly if he didn’t?

Who is he kidding?

What does he gain from laughing at them so openly?

“Buggy", yeah right.

As if!

Feeling his body tense up in response to his thoughts, the boy can’t help himself and bursts out, “What the hell is going on? What do you want from us? Calling yourself 'Buggy',” he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly to make his opinion on that front clear, “Who do you think we are? We’re just some street rats. We don’t own a thing and you knew that when you asked!”

That idea hasn’t been a conscious one that Shanks has mulled over on the way over at all and his surprise at having uttered it is showing on his face. However, the brief widening of his eyes at the accusation give the man away.

That’s.

Not cool.

The man’s stalked them, there is no way around it any longer.

For how long has he followed their trail? What for?

There’s no way he keeps giving them things – the cool bags etc. – without having an ulterior motive in mind. No one’s _that_ generous. Or selfless.

* * *

It’s becoming less and less amusing to watch, every time the boy just about _explodes_ on him, like that.

Has Shanks always been this protective, this... not in control, when they’d been this young? Not for the first time, Buggy wonders just how much of a calming blanket across their emotions Captain has actually proven to be, at the time that he’d picked them up.

Roger did have a soothing effect on Buggy, he’s known that for a long, long time already, seen evidence of it time and again whenever he finds himself using techniques he knows he’s learned at Roger's hands. Now, he starts to suspect just how much of one the pirate legend has had to have had on Shanks, as well.

But Buggy's... different. Has _had_ _to be_ , to become who he is and live for as long as he’s managed to, as a pirate captain in an era that’s less than forgiving of people choosing said occupation as their livelihood.

Roger became famous, yes, a legend in his lifetime. He died for it, too, though.

The silence stretches, the boy is gritting his teeth, most likely utterly frustrated at being confronted with such a taciturn clown. Heh.

His lip twitches again in barely hidden amusement, this time directed at himself. What a joke he’s become, eh? Can’t even answer a simple question.

Ah, he should probably get to it, before the kids decide to make a break for it.

“You’re done, yeah?” a beat passes them by in which he’s glad that the tension abates some to make way for confusion in its stead. He’ll take it, it’s miles better than the anxious fear that permeated the room earlier or the frustrated nervousness that’s been thrown at him.

“Alright then. _Buggy_ " the two snap around to focus on him head-on with the intensity of Conqueror's haki, although Buggy _knows_ that only one of the two's in possession of that particular power, “is my name. It’s nothing less, and nothing more.” The former pirate captain _really_ hopes the message is getting through to them this time around.

Surreptitiously, he spreads out his Observation haki to cover them, cataloguing the injuries he can sense on specific locations on their bodies as he goes. Narrowing his eyes at the two boys, Buggy is kind of glad that nobody’s home for the time being. The unrest in their auras hasn’t settled at all since coming here.

* * *

The man is... a mystery, to say the least. How can he stay kneeling down, calm as you please, after Shanks blew up on him like that? Sure, he hasn’t insulted him, not really, not yet... the boy blinks as he’s the one the man looks at when he addresses them next.

“I would like to treat your injuries. Will you let me?”

First he ignores them, does whatever he wants in what the two surmise is the house of a friend of his and leaves them by themselves to sort each other out for the time being, then he comes back and kneels before them and asks them to… yield to him, just like that? To… trust him, just like that?

It’s… eyes glazed over a little, Shanks finds that a knot has formed in his throat. Distrait, absent-mindedly, he moves his head so his eyes land on Buggy, to his left, always by his side, as per usual never straying far.

The blue-haired boy’s as confounded as he is at the situation.

Unbidden, he falls back to collapse into the chair that’s right behind him, from which he’s sprung up before confronting the stranger, the man, _Buggy_ -

And his legs tense while he contemplates the issue.

Looking over at the younger boy, he’s not sure how to address it or even if he _should_. After all, it’s not his name that’s being used by someone else. Burrowing backwards into the seat, slouching some and hunching his shoulders, he admits defeat at the steady gaze the man’s been regarding him with and sighs, eyes solidly on a spot to the right of him, fixed over the arm of the chair on a random painting that’s hanging on the wall, “Sure.”

All the fight leaves both boys at the utterance and, albeit wary still, they are willing to let the man do and watch him, for now. It’s not like he’s hurt them yet, and he’s even provided them with cool bags to get the swelling down some on their various injuries.

They’ll play nice. Until such a time as he shows his true nature.

If they have learned anything from their travels so far, it’s that that moment will come sooner or later. They’ve learned to be patient.

* * *

It doesn’t happen then and there.

It doesn’t happen when he takes a good look at their injuries and seethes inside, because he hasn’t been there for them the way he should have been. Had he been there, they’d have been safe from the bruises and cuts and scrapes that cover their arms, their legs and heads.

It doesn’t happen when he takes them to his room and sets them up there for the time being, having them put their sack on the bed for now, while he shows them around the premises. Not even when Ludy and Eddie manage to make it back to the farm late in the evening, long after he’s shown them where everything is and has them help him with basic chores around the farm that need doing.

It doesn’t happen when Ludy, in a bout of wakefulness that he doesn’t expect from her after what he knows has to have been a taxing first day of her doctor’s office opening for the first time, decides to put the two boys in the room across from his – “for more privacy”, she’s winked at him. Buggy does know that she’s long-since noticed his nightmares and figures she’s thinking of those, most likely. Wouldn’t do to wake the young ones up in the middle of the night just because he can’t keep it together.

It doesn’t happen for two more weeks’ time, where he’s left ambling alongside the rhythm that’s developed fast and steady in the wake of two barely-teenaged additions having been added to their colourful group. For two weeks, he’s in a daze, the only thing bringing him out of it with frightening regularity being the nicknames he bestows upon his younger self: one day, the blue-haired youngster is being called Bug, the next it’s Buggers, yet another one where he’s being particularly stubborn about something, it’s Bog. That last one’s only in use when Buggy’s in a less than charitable mood already, though, seeing how much he knows the boy doesn’t like it.

Instead, it happens in a most innocent setting, at the worst time of the day.

* * *

It’s Buggy’s turn to wash the dishes. Buggy-and-Shanks, or Shanks-and-Buggy, because that’s the only freaking way they’ll react if anyone wants to talk to the both of them at once or if anyone wants the two of them to react to the calll, are playing a board game they’ve found and been taught by Eddie earlier that week in the living room. The game’s a simple one, black and white stones on a black-and-white gameboard, but it takes quite a bit of thinking, nonetheless.

Shanks is grinning and Buggy’s put a hand to his chin, his brows furrowed as he considers his next move, when all of a sudden they hear something crash and clink in the kitchen.

Alarmed at the loud noises, they hesitate but for a moment to look at one another, their plan set into motion in the next.

As one, they bolt out of their chairs, game forgotten in their haste to find out what has happened.

Is it a burglar? Is it a pirate? Has anyone gotten hurt?

Entering the kitchen side by side only reveals Buggy - the man - sitting hunched over on the floor, knees underneath his body and with a faraway look in his eyes. A puddle’s steadily growing bigger behind him, most probably from the faucet that’s still turned on and flooding the sink that’s already overflowing with sudsy water.

With a few quick steps, Shanks hurries over to turn it off, not minding his socks getting wet in the chaos.

“Shanks! Wait! Stop right there!” the younger of the two shouts before the redhead can do anything else.

* * *

Buggy the younger is not quite sure what’s going on. One moment, everything was calm, the next pandemonium has broken out in the kitchen and Shanks and he have found Buggy the elder kneeling on the kitchen floor, clutching what appears to be a plate’s remnants in both hands, with shards lying spread out in front of him littering the floor and water accumulating to form an impressive puddle at the clown’s back.

The whole scene looks… pitiful and the teen’s heart goes out to the man he can see and feel, who’s not quite there with them at the moment, his emotions all over the place and confusing and… at a distance.

A gasp sounds and a moment later the boy notices it’s his own throat that’s produced it. The blue-haired youth takes care to step closer, avoiding shards left and right as best as he can until he is able to crouch down in front of the man that’s not moved from his position one bit.

He’s… far away right now, isn’t he? Glancing up and to the right, to where Shanks is standing, frozen at the sink and standing with his socks in the puddle of water, the boy knows no help will be forthcoming from that direction. The redhead doesn’t even know what the matter _is_ with the man.

To be fair, neither does he. But the clown did take them in when he didn’t need to, and that counts for something, right?

* * *

He comes back to himself, back to his body and his head, when first a hesitant finger, then a hand touches his shoulder. A plate is biting into his hands, even through the gloves’ layers of cloth, and his toes are cold.

Buggy blinks, slowly, as though waking from a dream he can’t quite remember. Turning his head to the left, he sees the younger boy, the blue-haired one, the one that’s not-quite-him-but-also-is frowning at him worriedly.

The touch is reassuring, grounding. At a snail’s pace, his gaze returns to his hands, where they’re cradling the plate, or, well, what is left of it.

It’s not-

that wasn’t supposed to-

it’s his fault that-

No.

Taking a shuddering breath, he closes his eyes and breathes calmly for a few more minutes. The hand never leaves his shoulder and he’s glad.

To be honest, he hasn’t let them see, hasn’t let his façade crack one bit, hasn’t let his mask come down fully, not even once, since they’ve moved in.

And it’s taken its toll on him, alongside everything else. Slouching down further, he hunches in on himself a bit, gaze fixed on the plate in his hands and his heart heavy and hurting, pulsing, in his ribcage.

Gulping, he can feel his eyes misting up.

* * *

That’s a tear. A tear’s falling down the cheeks of the man who’s taken them in and set them up as farmhands, of all things, and has taken care of them and been there for them for the past two weeks. That’s the same man who’s given them two cool bags when he could’ve given them more bruises to punish them for stealing.

Instead, he’s given them a roof over their head, food to eat and taken them under his wing.

And now, he’s sitting there, in the middle of a moderate farmhouse’s kitchen, surrounded by wreckage of his own making, it seems like, and crying.

It’s the crying part that has Shanks fold in on himself in helpless surrender in the face of a situation he has no idea how to handle. Shanks is out of his depth and he hates the feeling, hates the loss of control that is inherent in those kinds of situations that he has never thus far managed to get out of with everything intact and as it was before.

Isn’t it… something to be embarrassed about, crying? As if to prove his thoughts wrong in the most ridiculous manner possible, the man starts bawling as soon as the thought enters his mind.

Shanks’ ears burn red and he scratches at his arm distractedly, over the long sleeves he’s wearing, to hide his… own embarrassment? His not knowing what to do? And stare at the man with unabashed surprise.

* * *

Eyes wide, both boys confer about their next plan of action with their eyes and without words and Buggy can’t help but burst out a laugh through his tears, startling them both. The deer-in-the-headlines expressions the two throw at him next are comedy gold. Buggy needs to get himself a Den Den Mushi that can record this kind of stuff.

And, oh, he’s still crying, isn’t he? Big fat sobs come out, he’s ugly-crying like he's rarely dared to before and yeah, it’s definitely a good thing that Ludy’s office has taken off that well, for now no one but the three of them is home and he’s using this to his advantage where he can, isn’t he?

~~He’s not thinking about the plate and how the single-throwing-trick is not working any longer, _he’s_ **_not_** -~~

Not only has he managed to break down over something as small as a plate breaking, now he’s making the boys all _concerned_ over stupid old Buggy- and that just won’t do.

They’ve got it wrong, it’s not their job to worry about him. That’s his job.

* * *

Slowly getting up and rebuilding the mental space he’s calling his own, bit by bit, piece by piece, step by step, Buggy is standing up, his knees protesting a bit at the movement. He yawns. Gingerly, he is still holding the rest of the plate in one hand, trying to figure out how to clean up – where to start, more than anything.

Buggy’s really been out of it, hasn’t he? Completely lost it, for but a long, long moment. Might’ve even been a bit hysterical, as well.

Phew, what a mess.

Most likely, he’ll spend the night awake, with waking nightmares this time, if sleep doesn’t claim his body because of how exhausted he’ll be. For the first time since the two boys have entered the farmstead, he feels like he’s resurfacing, breaking through the surface of some sort of water that he’s spent the time submerged in – and voluntarily, at that.

Captain Buggy has successfully managed to stick his head into the mud for those two weeks they’ve been there. Small wonder that he’s not able to keep it up for much longer and has it crashing down on him now.

Exhaling a gust of air, he looks around himself – properly looks around himself – and his eyes, unfailingly, land on the boys. First things first, these two are to be shooed out. Them stepping on random shards lying around won’t help matters any and another glance downwards confirms that Shanks’ socks are soaked entirely through with water by now.

Shaking his head, Buggy directs them to the door and has Shanks pull off his socks and go get new ones from their room. The younger of the two is anxiously waiting by the door, wringing his hands and altogether a different sight than the one of the boy who’s been fearful _of_ him, rather than _for_ him all this time ago.

A little, genuine smile lights up his face at the thought.

How’s it turned into this, he wonders, turning on his heel to face the mess he’s made of the room once more?

It’s taken him two weeks to acknowledge that they’re here to stay, hasn’t it?

At least this way, they won’t end up more hurt than the scrapes boys at that age can be expected to get into when put to work at a farm. Those sorts of injuries at least can be anticipated somewhat.

Where does that leave him, however?

Not for the first time, he can feel something pulling him away from the farm, away from _that place_ , ~~_that execu_~~ -

Stop.

Not going there, not now, not with watchful young eyes focused on every single move of his. At least his grimace can’t be seen while he’s got his back turned on the kid.

Uncannily gifted when it comes to sensing haki and other people’s auras the boy might be, that doesn’t make him a progeny in terms of correctly interpreting his findings. The kid will have to be taught about it sooner or later, maybe Buggy ought to find him a teacher sometime or send one their way should he cross paths with a suitable one…

Clean-up goes by faster than he thought it would, especially once the blue-haired kid deigns it okay to lend a hand.

Aside from ordering the kids out and Shanks to get new socks, Buggy’s spent the time in silence and the kid has seemingly picked up on his need for no words being spoken at the moment.

It’s becoming increasingly apparent to Buggy that he needs to leave.

Now, how to tell them?

He needs a drink.

Glancing over at the yet-again-two pairs of eyes concernedly looking up at him, he amends the statement.

He needs a break.

At times like this, his reputation precedes him.

Buggy’s a coward, preferring to run away and flee to fighting and dying.

Oh, he’ll readily admit to that, in his own head and in front of stronger opponents than he’ll ever be.

What he’ll most definitely, absolutely not admit out loud, however, is that he’s also got a bit of a masochistic streak, apparently.

Particularly, because it’s been a while since he’s last been to the main square, to the place where _the execution platform is_ , ~~_where Gol D Roger was_~~ -

Yeah, that.

He’s a coward through and through, so he’s fled the scene immediately after he’s cleaned it up, fled the farm, preferring to get some “fresh air” before he has to face them and tell them that he’ll be taking his leave and probably upsetting their fragilely built balance in his wake.

That’s. Not something he’s looking forward to, not in the least.

But it’s better than the alternative, he knows.

Unbidden, somehow without his knowledge, his feet have finally, for the first time since he's come back, brought him to the main square of Logue Town, to the place he’s wanted to be last of all, the place he’s not known if he can stomach being there, the place he’s attached so many strangely contrasting memories to.

A turbulent life leads to all sorts of experiences, he’s the first to affirm that for anyone listening.

Ah, over there, that’s where they’ve lain in wait, expecting the strawhatted boy and his companions to appear any moment, only for the menace _to climb the fucking scaffold_ -

That hasn’t been one of his finer moments, admittedly. Although the lighting bolt has made for quite the show, hasn’t it? A corner of his mouth turns up while he’s reminiscing. Leaning casually against a nearby house wall at a point from where he’s got a good view over the plaza, he leisurely crosses his arms in front of his chest and takes his time to take everything in.

Busy as always, the square is filled with all sorts of people, market stalls and shouts vying for passers-by’s attention like mad, organised chaos in the making. In the intervening years, the core of the town has not changed much.

Looking down at himself, he can proudly claim to have found a way to put himself together again to the way he was before the marines-

Yeah.

The white gloves that sit snugly against the skin on his hands and fingers are a familiar comfort. True, he hasn’t found the exact shirt and trousers he’s worn before he’s landed here, but he did manage to get black dress shoes tailored just how he likes them, with long tips at the front ends.

His hair is pulled back in a ponytail, as it has been since he’s landed here. His captain’s hat had been a present, after all, and he doesn’t want a cheap knockoff just because he can afford to have one made.

Pulling his head up again, his eyes glance over the assortment of people he can find to distract himself from the direction his thoughts have taken. That one there, that’s a crook, the hand making signs for “easy target” and “two o’clock” quick to be deciphered by the ones in-the-know. The one that’s sitting with the newspaper exaggeratedly draped over his face is a marine, probably off-duty or currently undercover, stiff upright body and the shoes giving him away.

There’s two nobles enjoying a drink at a food stall, the smallest finger pointed away from the cups as though they’re used to holding tea cups rather than the paper ones they’ve been given and their clothes definitely high-end, her dress with plaited decorations and his suit dark-blue-coloured and shiny in the sun. Oh, there’s a top hat in his hand, too, along with a walking stick. Phew, nobles.

Wisps of laughter drifting in his direction from a nearby café have his mind travel back to a fire cackling in the ground at a beach, the moon and the stars along with the fire alighting familiar, smiling faces in the dark. Joyful laughter is ringing out along with off-key singing and kegs of drinks are being cheerfully passed around the circle of his nakama that he finds himself surrounded by. Closing his eyes, he allows for the scene to encompass him, envelop him like an old friend, his crew gathered around him and doing stunts and increasingly complicated acrobatic shows just because they can.

“ _You don’t have to do everything alone, captain! That’s what Cabbaji and I are here for! Richie can help too, if you’d like us to keep the crew in line for while you’re gone?_ ”

The tears that make a trail down his cheeks this time around have no hints of hysterics in them. Poor, lonely things that they are, they don’t even attract any attention from anyone in the square, so long as he doesn’t rub them away. Really, he hasn’t thought that the blue makeup he’s chosen to wear that day would conceal his emotions this perfectly, but he’ll take what he can get.

With his eyes open now, he immediately notices when a hand hesitantly reaches up to him, offering him a tissue. His gaze travels up the lean arm to land on the face of the blue-haired kid who’s gnawing on his lower lip and looking at him concernedly. The redhead that’s accompanied him is standing right behind him, looking out at the mass of people gathered at the square and obviously ignoring him on purpose. Mayhaps he is still upset that Buggy has simply taken off like that?

“… Thanks.” He manages, taking the tissue. With another glance at the square, he motions for the two to follow him, “Let’s take this somewhere more private, shall we?” and herds them off. As curious as he is about how they’ve managed to find him – he’s become predictable, has he? Even more reason for him to move on lest someone unsavoury catch on –, he knows it’s neither the time nor the place for that or any other discussion they’ve come to engage in with him.

When they arrive, it barely fazes him that Buggy’s feet led them to the playground, the meeting point he’s decided upon on a whim when he’s had two boys, bruised and wary, following him nigh a fortnight ago. Taking a seat on the bench he’s claimed as his own ever since their first meetup, he slouches back on it to close his eyes for a moment.

Upon opening them again, he’s not the least bit surprised to see two hovering shadows in front of him and another tissue being offered to him that he takes from the hand gratefully.

It’s now that he allows himself to whip out a small pocket mirror and wipe away any stray tears and, dabbing carefully at the tear tracks, conceal those too in the lines he’s drawn on his face earlier that day. A flick of his hand, and he’s got a pencil and a brush to work with, replenishing the colours on his face and deleting any trace of crying that’s still visible on his face.

For the moment, he ignores the four eyes filled with a mixture of worry and wonder that follow his every move. Their feelings are evident in their auras even without him having to spread out his haki to cover the area, and he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to find out what lurks beyond the surface emotions he can sense. Easier to talk about them, more often than not. Reveals more, most certainly.

Pigeons have claimed the furthermost corner of the playground for themselves. Cheerful cooing and the wind going through the leaves create a myriad of background sounds to listen to that he lets wash over him while he works.

With a sigh, he puts away the mirror once he’s done.

Turning to the boys who’ve moved to sit down on the ground in front of him, he looks at them and asks, “So. How’d you find me this fast?”

Shanks, as per usual, finds his tongue first, “You don’t go there, usually. You go out of your way to avoid that place, even though it’s an easy shortcut through the town. That’s how we thought you might be here.” He says, eyes averted to study the dirty ground to his left.

Huh.

So they’ve picked up on that, have they?

What else have they managed to unearth in the time they’ve worked together with him?

Not that it’s a wrong conclusion to come to, per se. It’s just… missing the bigger picture, Buggy thinks, contemplating just how long it’s been since he last let himself enter that plaza. Douke no Buggy hasn’t visited the main square of Logue Town, yes, but it’s been going on for longer than the two sitting in front of him know about: he hasn’t gone there ever since he’s landed back in time, in fact, avoiding it where he can.

And isn’t that the crux of it?

It seems that he’s been a coward for so long, he’s finally gotten tired of it.

Mirthfully, he smiles, not letting them in on the joke. The time for him to leave is approaching, fast, isn’t it?

“What’s… you’re…” the blue-haired boy starts to ask, but refrains from going on. The other two's eyes settle on him while they wait patiently for him to get out what he wants to say.

The kid takes a breath and huffs it out, before taking another to venture on, “Is it… us?” Uncertain eyes fixate him with a look that he can’t read, “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

How on earth…?

Thinking back on it, the answer comes to him quickly. Buggy’s always been one intuitive little bastard, hasn’t he?

Knowing when to run away, how to make the best of any situation when luck and everything else is stacked against you – there’s only so much that skills and talent can do for you.

Listening to one’s intuition, now that can get you places. Especially when Ds get involved and situations tend to escalate from there.

“Is it… because of us?” that slams Buggy right back into the present.

Ice pouring figuratively over his back, his muscles tense.

That isn’t something he wanted them to take away from that.

After all, it’s not them - they're not the reason he needs to leave, are they? True, they are part of the reason – it’s a younger version of _him_ that’s sitting on the floor in front of him right there, how could that ever not be relevant? – but it’s definitely more Buggy himself who needs to leave _for his own sake_.

Or doesn’t he?

The sigh he releases doesn’t even begin to cover all that’s churning inside of him at the notion. Body deflating, his attempts at becoming one with the bench are failing spectacularly.

What bullshit is he on, to think that they wouldn’t follow him to wherever he’s fled?

Seems that he’s acquired some sort of ducklings in the process of finding them a roof to sleep under and food to eat.

Closing his eyes in resignation, Buggy thinks he might need to broach the topic more candidly, handle it with kid gloves on.

Hah, what word play he’s capable of. Great poets are shuddering in their graves, he’s sure.

“I’m not – I’m not leaving. At least, not yet.” Buggy eyes them calmly, tired eyelids drooping a little. Feeling the need to clarify, he goes on to say, “And you’ve got that wrong: I’m leaving because I _can’t stay_ , not because of you two.”

“But you’re going to leave.” Is what they summarise succinctly, drily reflecting his own words back at him.

A nod is all the answer they’ll get. It doesn’t appease them one bit. Incensed, they still don’t say anything more to him about it. Funny, almost two weeks ago, they’d have fought him on every single word.

The peaceful surroundings don’t invite fights so much as they appear to settle their emotions for them, at least for now. In the evening, things will most likely be different.

* * *

When they’ve come back from their outing, Ludy’s home and she doesn’t waste a minute to put them to work. She’s early, for once, and Buggy wonders at the reason behind it as he’s boiling some water to put noodles in for dinner, no trace of the mess from earlier noticeable anymore.

Maybe something to do with her office? Hasn’t it been going well so far?

She doesn’t seem in low spirits, so it can’t be that. Seems more apologetic, if anything, as she’s sitting down for dinner with them. Haro isn’t in the house, as it has become his habit to leave the office late at night and get up way before dawn to go straight back there again.

“Eddie’s with friends tonight.” Ludy answers the unasked question for him while they’re eating. Nothing else is being said, and soon the plates are empty and their bellies full.

Buggy raises an eyebrow at the reticent mannerisms she’s putting forth, which seem so unlike her that evening, and asks, “What’s this about? You didn’t come home early just to have dinner with us, did you?”

Nursing a tea after all the plates have been put into the kitchen, she has her gaze fixated on the tablecloth as she explains, haltingly, that they’re thinking of selling the farm. The doctor’s office is going well, financially, unexpectedly so, and the three of them don’t really need the income generated by the farm anymore.

“You’re firing us.” Is what it boils down to and Shanks’ summary is on point, as per usual. His eyes are hard, harder than a kid’s eyes have any right to be, and Buggy realises that he sees the two boys' livelihood in jeopardy along with the roof above their heads. Shanks doesn’t think Buggy will try his hardest to do anything more for them than he’s done so far and that, that hurts, friendly acquaintances though they’ve become until then. Turning his head to the younger boy, Buggy's suspicions are confirmed: both of them don't expect him to do anything more for them than what he's already gone out of his way to do for them.

“Not immediately!” Ludy is quick to reassure the three of them.

Fact is, however, that they’ve become redundant.

There’s a tiny chance whoever the new owner will be will need farmhands to work for them, but, well… for Buggy, that’s never been a long-term option to begin with, has it?

The time on the farm has been enjoyable, pleasant even. It’s become more interesting, once the kids have jumped on board, but that’s only marginally made a difference, for Buggy.

To be honest, he’s hoped that he could find them someplace, somewhere they can live and be themselves at until they reach adulthood, yet… it seems that’s not to be.

In an ideal world, things wouldn’t be like this, with kids needing to fend for themselves being regarded as “normal”.

His eyes narrow as he vows to himself to take care of the two until he finds them someplace steady to stay, with people that look after them with the boys’ best interests at heart.

If for no one else, he owes it to himself and the young version of him that’s sitting at the same table as Buggy, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, dear person out there on the other side of the screen! Hope you liked it!!! :D
> 
> I have managed to find a song that's perfectly encapsulating what Buggy's going through atm, which you can find [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoDUZvpjTyo) (with English subtitles too!) Enjoy!
> 
> Hope it was clear who was who in this chapter? The trouble of time travel fics: you tend to then have to deal with two characters _with the same name_ running around XD And I wanted to make them meet and interact, en plus? Woah, there. T's been an adventure, writing these scenes ;D
> 
> What's awaiting you in the next chapter (which will hopefully not be as long as this one but we'll see): a _Talk_ TM, some plot happening and another TalkTM. Turbulent times ahead, so buckle up, folks.
> 
> Leave a comment if you're in the mood to? Would love to hear about your thoughts~


	8. Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re not here for him. If anything, it’s supposed to be the other way around.
> 
> But maybe, maybe he can get a life lesson for the two in, while he is at it.
> 
> And maybe that’ll help him cope, for now, for the time being.
> 
> Douke no Buggy doesn’t need to handle it for long.
> 
> Just until he’s alone would already be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all wanted to see how Buggy takes care of the kids after the farm? Well, long answer short is “it’s not that easy”.
> 
> What's awaiting you in this chapter: a TalkTM, some plot happening and the beginnings of another TalkTM.
> 
> Also: **WARNING!** There's gonna be talking about illness, glossing over medical procedures and the consequences thereof. Proceed with caution, dearest readers - I'm talking to those of you who this might be a bit much for. (to all the others, I say... eh, well. If the Canonical Character Death Warning in the tags up above doesn't run you off, there's little else that will, methinks?) Why am I warning for that? Well, current climate that we live in, I'd say I'd rather warn more than less...
> 
> Settle in comfortably, gents and ladies and everything in-between, make yourself a cuppa tea or another beverage of your choice, go grab some cookies and enjoy~
> 
> :D

_When the going gets tough, put one foot in front of the other and just keep going. Don’t give up._

~Roy T. Bennett in _The Light in the Heart_

* * *

She’s a doctor. She’s working at all hours of the day. She’s dedicated to her job and her patients are important.

In her head, to herself, she admits that her social skills might need some more work. Perhaps, she could have told them about the prospect of their future unemployment in more diplomatic terms? Refusing to grimace or let show any of her discomfort and the fact that she’s berating herself for the blunt delivery of the situation as-is, she watches the tea steam in her hands.

The silence stretches uncomfortably. The tea is hot, Ludy busying herself with moving the spoon this way and that. At last, she tries, “What... do you plan to do? Do you have somewhere to go to, after?”

Ludy’s looking up at the three of them in askance, admitting, “It’s not set in stone yet, so feel free to stay for as long as you need to.”

“But you won’t need us any more, once you sell the farm.” Shanks makes sure, stating it as an accepted fact of life. The sky is blue, the sun shines brightly and as soon as they’re not needed any longer, kids are thrown out into the street to fend for themselves again.

A considering look is levelled at him by Ludy. The woman knows resigned acceptance when she sees it. She just hasn’t yet allowed herself to believe that this kind of hardened, cynical outlook could ever come at her from the mouth of a child. Her worldview is shaking on its foundations because of what she’s gotten used to seeing at her office by now, but in no way is she prepared to have it challenged within her own four walls like that.

Reminding herself that she’s _not that kind of person_ , she takes a stalling breath. Letting it out, she can feel herself calm down slightly. When she opens her eyes, it’s to the sight of three pairs of eyes regarding her contemplatively.

“No, we won’t.” In regards to her status as their employer, she has to lay down all her cards so they can see them and make an informed decision. She owes them that much, at least.

They have agreed to work for her, after all, and it’d be remiss of her not to honour that.

Yet... as somewhat of their friendly acquaintance, that she indulges herself in thinking she’s become to them by now, she smiles at the three and states, “I’m not about to throw you to any wolves. You know that, right?” Her reassurance does little in terms of waving away the turbulences she can see in their eyes. Nonetheless, she ventures bravely on, “You can stay for however long you’ll need to. And I’ll help go through any potential future employers for you, should you want me to vet them for you. As much as I’m able to, I _will_ help you, is that clear?”

Shoulders release a little bit of tension at that, nigh unnoticeable. Good. She nods, satisfied with the little progress she can sense in the air between them.

Taking up her cup of tea, she takes a sip, glancing furtively at the only other adult at the table. Unless he’s all of a sudden feeling severely unwell, there’ll be hell to pay if he does not take care of the two boys now that he’s found them. Ludy makes a mental note to remind the blue-haired man that she’ll be more than capable of unleashing such on him, should he even so much as entertain the notion of leaving the kids to be on their own in the near-to-distant future.

Honestly, Ludy's not sure what amount of common sense he’s retained after his ordeal – or, well, what they’ve been able to conclude he’s had to have gone through before he’s been found in the woods of the Drum Rockies –, however, she’ll definitely keep an eye on the three of them until such a time that she’s satisfied they’ll be doing okay for themselves.

She’s a doctor, she’s working at all hours of the day, she’s dedicated to her job and her patients are important, and she _will_ make time for that if she doesn’t find a free slot to squeeze it in somewhere.

Then again, they’ll manage on their own, she’s certain of that. Their houseguests are of the colourful sort, aren’t they? Starting ever since the mysterious-but-well-mannered blue-haired man has entered their lives via her cousin, it has been a bit of a bumpy ride of events, but Buggy has always come out on top somehow. In the time that she’s gotten to know him, she’s heard him deal with nightmares, seen him show signs of anxiety, of depressive periods and trauma. She’s seen him have what she strongly suspects have been pockets of time where he’s dissociated from the world entirely as well as give her the jerky reactions and haunted look of a hardened soldier.

Still, he’s helped where he could, kept himself busy with menial work where thoughts are allowed to stray and one’s body becomes too tired to do more than crave sleep thereafter.

Still, he’s lived at her farm, spent time talking and doing chores with them, accepting the temporary place at her farm in his life.

Still, he’s smiled and shown he cared, particularly when with the boys.

At this point, she’s not even sure he’s consciously aware of how much he’s come to care for them.

To be fair, she did believe him from the get-go, when he’s told her that the kids are family “of sorts", and the uncanny resemblance between Buggy and... well, Buggy – for the boy’s introduced himself as that to her and is not too fond of the various nicknames bestowed on him, she’s noticed – does give credence to the story.

And yet.

There’s something.... a little bit off. The two Buggys do appear a tad... too similar to one another, sometimes.

Shaking her head to clear her whimsical thoughts from it, she has to admit her aunt’s penchant for seeing mysteries to be solved everywhere has rubbed off on her. There’s nothing to be gained from seeing riddles where there aren’t any to be found.

With her tea soon emptied of its contents, she doesn’t see much point in staying awake for longer than necessary; the next day, she’ll have to go to work again early, so she retires before her guests do.

The next day passes by remarkably quickly. Ludy noticed a certain change of pace the evening before, however in broad daylight, the shift between her guests is more noticeable by far: the boys' countenance seems more relaxed, as though something has loosened, has slotted into place for them – despite the prospect of losing the roof over their heads soon –, and their eyes shine brighter, she thinks.

* * *

On Buggy’s side of things, business – such as the evening – didn’t go by as easily as that. Turns out, kids can be tenacious, when it comes to talks and them wanting to unearth secrets and or get to know what the hell has been going on. Well, he’s been able to delay it for as long as he can, hasn’t he?

That evening, directly after that bomb has been dropped on them mightn’t be the best time for a heart-to-heart, but Buggy the clown has never been lucky when it comes to timings. As it is, he’s allowed to make it to his room – directly opposite theirs, still, easy to access and out of the way of the other house residents’ rooms to boot – and take a seat on his bed, before his eyes alight on the two intruders.

He huffs, shoulders falling, resigned to being interrogated but not in the least pleased about it. If they have to demand answers ( _that he suspects he can’t give them_ ), he can be huffy about it. ( _ ~~It’s not a marine interrogation, he’s. **Not. There.**~~_ )

Propping his lower arms up on his legs, he regards the two evenly as they make their way into his room once they are sure he won’t kick them out all of a sudden. His gaze rests a beat longer on the healed-up hand, the healed-up bruise he knows were there on the two kids’ bodies not that long ago.

They amble over, Buggy the younger takes a seat on the single chair that there is – it’s there for naught, really, seeing as there’s no table or anything to do stuff with, but the chair is in his room because there hasn’t been room for it anywhere else – and Shanks remains standing besides his companion. Both their eyes rest on him, uncertainty playing with confusion and, yes, already there’s a bit of sadness there, at the loss they’ll be facing soon. It’s been nice, while it lasted.

 _“You can stay for however long you’ll need to.”_ she’s told them. There’s that, at least. Ludy doesn’t strike him as someone who goes back on her word once it’s been given, so he feels justified in counting on that.

The atmosphere surrounding the three is tentative, a bit of a truce sprinkled with… something familiar. It’s like a scent Buggy knows and can identify easily, a feeling he’s long-since gotten to know and been comfortable with, a sight he’s yet to see ever since the marines have arrested him.

It’s something he’s last experienced from his own crew, which is why it takes him a moment to place it. Is that… willing dependency, he senses? On _him_? If so, the two boys will soon see the misjudgement they have fallen victim to. Douke no Buggy can’t be depended on, he’s a pirate – and not just any pirate, but a _pirate captain_ at that!

… maybe there’s a fault in his own logic, there.

The sigh he lets out is one half self-depreciating, one half exhaustedly exasperated.

“Well, then.” His reluctantly uttered words cut through the silence and sufficiently startle the two boys. They’re looking at him as though he could break down and start to cry any second. That won’t do.

Not their job, is it, to worry about him?

He huffs again. Raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, I guess. About earlier.” Buggy begins with the easiest thing to admit to: the plate he’s let fall down when he didn’t intend for it to. Although, perhaps he should rather say this to Ludy. It is _her_ plate, to begin with.

… Nah.

Buggy’s a pirate. One plate more or less isn’t about to make or break his life at the farm, not when it’s hanging in the balance, as it is.

Also, he’s a coward first and foremost. And has a healthy respect for Ludy’s methods of discipline. Chores are _so_ not his style. No sense in crying over spilt milk, is there?

Ah, but he’s digressing.

Concentrating back on the conversation he’s supposed to be having, he sees the two looking at him with scrunched up eyebrows. Not at all signs that they understood what he meant, are they?

Gruffly, he clarifies, “Bout the plate, I mean.”

Shanks is the one – predictably – who opens his mouth and counters his utterances first, “That’s not…” he takes a breath before going on, “It’s not what… We didn’t expect you to- to, uhm.” His cheeks redden a little, mayhaps in belated second-hand embarrassment, mayhaps in undecidedness as to how to go on, and he turns so his body is facing the room – his left-hand side facing Buggy and his back facing Buggy the younger – and puts his left hand up to scratch behind his neck.

His younger counterpart is the one who finishes the thought, “We didn’t expect you to cry, like that.”

Buggy is oh-so-tempted to ask if there’s a certain protocol that one has to follow whenever one cries but bites it back. That kind of feedback wouldn’t have helped his situation any, nor would it theirs.

Instead, he sighs. It’s becoming a standard response of his, isn’t it? Grimacing at the thought, he shakes his head and, levelling an even look at the two, he ascertains, “Can happen to anyone, really.” he shrugs nonchalantly, trying to shrug the whole event off with a careless movement of his shoulder, “The way it happened to me, well,” next he closes his eyes, before going on, “it wasn’t supposed to happen like that” ( _with a plate shattered because he couldn’t catch it, ~~because he wasn’t anywhere near close to catching it~~ , **~~wasn’t fast enough any longer to catch up to his failures~~**_ ) “but it happened anyway.”

When he opens his eyes, it’s with a resolve to train his body, to get it back to the level _he’s been at_ _~~before-~~_

Before his thoughts can derail the conversation any further, he calmly – way calmer than he feels inside – states, “It’s what I do with what happened that decides the future.”

Oh, that sounds so corny. A past version of Buggy would have wept with dismay at the corniness. That kind of corny gets you followers, mindless sheep that they are, _gets you charisma you never knew you were capable of_ , **_~~gets you killed and an early grave-~~_**

Buggy bites back whatever he wants to say next. Nothing’s gonna top that one, he’s sure of it.

Just what he needs: more reason for the two to stick to his side. He hides his grimace at the surfacing idea that oh, he’s gained two followers already, hasn’t he? Their undivided attention rests heavily on him, their eyes following his every move, his every word seemingly advice that they need.

The man shudders at the implications. _He’s not made to become anybody’s mentor, ~~never mind his own-~~_

“So. I cried.” Both boys cringe at the blunt delivery of the truth they’ve seen with their own eyes earlier. Such brutal honesty is… uncommon, to say the least.

Pulling off his shoes with his feet, Buggy shifts backwards to sit against the wall on the bed, drawing his feet up to sit there cross-legged and consciously relaxes his shoulders, his breathing and his whole posture.

Drawing in a breath, he opens his eyes once more ( _when has he closed them? Ah, doesn’t matter_ ) and threw the two youngsters another calculating look.

“You’ve never seen someone cry before.” his statement makes Shanks grimace and look to the door and the blue-haired boy look down with an undecipherable expression.

To Buggy, the two may as well be books to be read at his leisure, for all that they’re rubbish at concealing their feelings from the world and anybody with even a tentative grip on haki.

Finding them a teacher to develop and explain to them about _their_ haki – and the potential they’re both harbouring – becomes a higher priority the more time passes them by.

Buggy knows what he’s said is not true – the two of them have seen people cry before, naturally, it’s a human phenomenon and not to stumble upon anybody crying is kind of… out there, to be honest. Yet, he knows that crying openly, freely, like he did, is… not something they’d expect, out of a man clearly three times their age, at least. Gods, he feels old.

Taking a big breath, he lets it out in a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Crying as a grown-up is… not very different to what crying is like as a kid, really.” His words are spoken carefully, a measured tone making up for the turmoil he’s going through inside, and he manages to get his confession out in one, continuous, string of words, “My breakdown this morning is what I reaped for not addressing anything properly earlier, I guess.” His next sigh is world-weary, a tired little thing that sounds loud in the attentive silence he’s generated in that temporary room of his.

And just how temporary it is, this peaceful existence he’s built, now that they know Ludy’s thinking of selling the farm…

Buggy’s a pirate. Buggy’s no farmer. A doctor, a therapist, he is not either. That’s as far outside his capabilities as one would think it is. Neither are the two boys inside the same room as he currently any of the three. They have yet to choose their paths, after all. Nothing better to remind himself that he has to tread carefully, if he decides to tread any path, at all.

They’re not here for him. If anything, it’s supposed to be the other way around.

But maybe, maybe he can get a life lesson for the two in, while he is at it.

And maybe that’ll help him cope, for now, for the time being.

Douke no Buggy doesn’t need to handle it for long.

Just until he’s alone would already be enough.

( _Until he can break down in peace_ )

( _With no one the wiser_ )

( _No one to care for_ )

( _ ~~His own heart~~_ )

( ** _ ~~Shatters~~_** )

* * *

To Shanks’ eyes, it’s clear that Buggy – the man, for all that that’s _still_ a point of contention between the two blue-haired, stubborn mules in the room – hasn’t been lying to them. That’s something the two of them have ascertained early on: the man would go out of his way to avoid conversations, and hard conversations at that, would hide and run and scramble off with half-arsed apologies-that-aren’t-real-reasons and avoid them and anything to do with them and the topic of choice that’s hard to swallow and oh.

Yet another point the two red-nosed people that have wormed their way into his life have in common. Huh. To say he didn’t expect that would… kind of be insulting to his intellect. Shanks didn’t see that one coming, true, but he has to work with it, now.

But no, if there’s one thing the man hasn’t done, it is to lie to them.

Then the man admits to having cried. Out loud. For all the room to hear.

That’s… it’s disconcerting.

Embarrassing.

Shameful?

Shanks’ eyebrows scrunch together.

“Crying as a grown-up is… not very different to what crying is like as a kid, really.” That’s… can that be true? This simple statement throws so many of his beliefs into question, it’s easier to relegate that issue to be dealt with later, when he can make sense of it. “My breakdown this morning is what I reaped for not addressing anything properly earlier, I guess.” A sigh accompanies the words and it’s- _distressing_ , more than anything. That’s not- it’s different from all the sighs that came before, the way it’s curling around the air, _as though it’s from someone_ _~~on the verge of giving up-~~_

And Shanks doesn’t know what compels him, be it the glassy, faraway look in the man’s eyes, the way the blue-haired man has to swallow first, _~~swallow a pill that’s hard to-~~_

And then the eyes, those beady, world-weary eyes close _and another tear-_

And Shanks has moved before he can comprehend what he’s doing, _moved to-_

His breath stutters as his arms envelop the man in a hug. The boy hugs him and he’s not sure who’s more surprised by the action, him or the blue-haired, snot-nosed mystery man in front of him.

With his arms around him, as tightly as he can, he tries to hug the soul and breath out of the man. Telling him in actions – because words fail him, as they always do – so useless, only adapt at antagonising folks and getting into fights – telling the man with actions what he can’t think to express verbally. Comforting the mulish individual that’s so-much-like-Buggy-but-isn’t as much as Shanks does himself. Clutching onto their host, their current dare-he-say-it? guardian, his own eyes close, mourning for a person he barely knows, a man that’s made life all the more bearable for two boys he hardly knows and. Who. _Keeps_. **_Giving_**.

Despite them not asking him to.

Despite the two of them doing their utmost to help him.

Despite the two of them not even being in his life for all that long a time, yet.

The red-hair doesn’t have to spare a glance at his agemate to know he’s moving towards the two, to awkwardly add a third to the pile. They then proceed to hug the living daylights out of their ~~saviour~~ host and each other.

A moment passes.

And another.

One more.

Suddenly, Shanks has the urge to snort and gives in to it.

Because why not?

Twin looks of befuddlement turn to him, one teary-eyed and sniffling, the other simply confused. Shanks has to giggle at their uncomprehending faces. All too soon, his giggles erupt into a full-blown belly-laugh.

There’s nothing really funny about the situation, is there?

But he can’t help himself.

Those two – their twin looks of “pouty dog”, now that the initial reaction is swept off their faces, are just too hilarious to pass up.

Snorting in the misplaced amusement of one absorbed in the awkwardness of the moment, he laughs on.

Soon, his comrade-in-arms is finding his laughter contagious and joins in.

The spontaneous hilarity is lost on the man, as it is on any adult Shanks and Buggy have so far encountered, although the upward quirk of his lips betrays the change in mood he’s gone through.

The next time the man sighs, it’s a one-eighty to the last one: all exasperated, rolling-his-eyes-huffy, adult-y sounding.

Shanks counts it as a win.

The chuckles moving his body are interspersed with the irritable itching on his right arm. Valiantly, he keeps from scratching at his arm, the long sleeves he’s taken to wearing doing their best at hindering him in the endeavour.

All’s not well in their world yet – things are far from it, actually, taking into account their dawning unemployment and all its consequences for the three of them – and the red-haired boy realises, maybe for the first time, that it doesn’t have to be.

They’ll make do.

Come what will.

They’ll handle it.

Together.

* * *

Her doctor’s office is doing well, financially, she thinks to herself. Once she’s successfully sold off the farm, she might even be able to put some money aside to help Eddie kickstart that shop he keeps dreaming about... and then the three of them might have enough together to buy a house – a proper house, not a ramshackle farmhouse, with a dog and a picket fence and all that entails –, too.

It’s yet another morning, five days after the announcement she’s had to make and things are looking up for all the occupants of her farm. Ludy kept asking around town for a place for the three of her employees and she may have gained a lead on where they could stay and work for a little pocket money next, should they be so inclined as to take her friend up on that offer.

A knock at the door signals a visitor. Unexpected though it is, it’s not uncommon, especially in the morning, for visitors to come by. When she gets up and opens it, she is greeted by a mailman, making her day even more perfect than she thought it could have been. With him, he carries a letter from June that arrived with the merchant ship that’s coming from Drum every few weeks or so.

The boys are thundering downstairs with the loudness that is running rampant at their age. Sea kings would be quieter houseguests, but she’s gotten used to the rambunctious mornings. Her first day off in a while is something to behold and makes her far more generous and patient than she’d normally turn out to be.

They sit themselves down opposite her seat at the table, before immediately getting up again to gather the ingredients they’d need for breakfast from the kitchen, slices of toast being high up the priority list, she’s come to know.

Buggy’s taking his time getting ready upstairs – his routine involves a skin-care regimen lately, she knows, albeit where he’s getting the funds from to pay for his products he is worryingly tight-lipped about –, Eddie’s out with friends and Haro’s sleeping in.

And a letter from June has come in, to top it off!

What a wonderful morning.

Her eyes slither over the lines, the comforting slant of the handwriting she’s oh-so-familiar with giving her a sense of home from afar. She misses Drum, with its snow, its Rockies and its unforgivingly blunt doctors. Yet, she’s happy to have finished her apprenticeship and have come back here to live with her husband and her son. For nothing in the world she’d miss this, no matter how supportive the two of them are of her and her professional endeavours.

She takes a sip from the tea she’s prepared herself earlier.

Mayhap she’ll visit Drum, sometime. Together with the two of them, she’s promised them that already, after all. Wouldn’t do to break her promise.

Movement from directly in front of her gives her pause.

Filing the train of thought neatly away to be continued at a later date, her eyes zero in on a hand curling and moving towards a for-once-unclothed arm in a subconscious gesture, almost in slow motion, the way it has done often in the past two-and-a-half weeks that the body that hand is attached to has spent with her already and something about the motion jumps out at her now. The T-shirt does nothing to hide the red splotch the red-haired boy’s scratching at.

As much as she’s thought of it as a sort-of nervous habit in the past, a silent alarm begins blaring inside her head when she consciously lets herself think about and _count_ all the past occasions that she’s seen that very thing happen just as it does right then before her very eyes, with the slight grimace to the boy’s facial features, as he relentlessly starts scratching at a reddish spot on his arm. Correction: at one of the reddish spots on his arm. For she notices that there are indeed more than one, all of which make up a disconcerting pattern along the flush skin of his-

Flushed.

 _His skin is flushed_ , she realises almost absent-mindedly, as she takes in his overall appearance next, expertly concealed by the red hair and... _is that a touch of make-up on his face_?

Her eyes grow larger, the more a rather unpleasant picture begins to form in her head.

Tea forgotten entirely, she jumps up from her seat all of a sudden and makes a beeline to arrive at the boy’s side within seconds, holding a hand to his forehead while he’s still processing the fact that his health is under scrutiny, slightly alarmed, not yet all that awake and hilariously confused all at once.

She’s a doctor.

She’s working at all hours of the day.

She’s dedicated to her job and her patients are important.

 _How on earth_ has it slipped her notice that one if the kids in her care is ill?

 _And likely has been for some time already_ , given that his complexion is nothing new in her mind’s eye.

She swallows, hard.

This is no laughing matter.

In no time, she’s herded him – and his peer, the two of them rarely go anywhere alone, – into the kitchen, sat him down at a stool and gone through the medical procedure expected of her in a situation such as this.

Fever.

Red spots.

Scratching – irritable skin most likely as the cause behind it.

Correction: red _splotches_ , all over any skin that’s visible, she soon finds out.

“For how long has this been going on?” she demands to know, almost out of breath with the alarm that’s cursing through her. And is met by uncomfortable, guilty silence from _both_ of her charges.

They’ve been with her for two – no, make that two and a half – weeks now, haven’t they? Has this been looming over them for all that time? No, potentially even for longer than that.

She’ll have to have a look, have to do some more research, but… the first few illnesses that come to mind at seeing these particular symptoms – along with others, sure, but while keeping these at the forefront, – are nothing to laugh at.

Ludy hopes she’s wrong.

She’s a freshly employed doctor – how has she not seen the signs?

The woman desperately hopes she’s wrong.

* * *

This may be one of the few times in her entire life where she hates being right.

As soon as she finished the superficial examination of the boy and tried to herd the two of them out of the kitchen to prepare to head off to another doctor for a cross-examination, they met Buggy at the stairs; who took one look at them, surmised – correctly – that something was gravely wrong and went with them to that other doctor who was then only able to confirm her hypothesis.

Away from young ears who might not know what to do with the information yet.

( _ ~~Not that the adults in the room are any better at that~~_ )

Buggy at her side, she has to take a seat in the chair at the second doctor’s office – a colleague of hers, trustworthy and a good doctor, for all that the same truly can’t be said about quite a few in the profession stationed here in Logue Town.

The kids have been asked to spend some time in the waiting room.

“It’s not… at least it’s not contagious.” she manages to croak out. Mild comfort that _that_ is.

Her blue-haired companion’s face is unreadable. He’s staring into the distance contemplatively.

The verdict that both the doctor and she have arrived at is not as mild or easy to digest.

“Sea fever” is the diagnosis that both have come to determine. An illness that deteriorates the body slowly at first, taking four to five weeks to get to the first stage, and then, for the next four stages it’s another two to three weeks to _days_ that the person afflicted with the illness has left. Needless to say, it’s a terminal illness, in most cases, unless the people in question realise what they have early on.

Nothing to cure easily or without the correct medicine at hand.

Which, for the record, they don’t have.

But the people on _Drum_ do.

The thing is, well.

When Buggy addresses that fact, Ludy can only shake her head, “Why do you think June gave you that letter to bring to me when you came here? The merchant’s ships only land here every three weeks or thereabouts, using Logue Town as a pitstop to exchange wares between the kingdom of Goa and Drum Island. So, either you can wait for another five to six weeks for the medicine to be brought back here…”

“Or we can go to Drum ourselves and get the medicine there directly.” Buggy interjects.

His voice is remarkably strong, in the face of that earth-shattering diagnosis.

They’ve… rallied together, have they? Ludy realizes, as the blue-haired man steps out of the doctor’s office slightly ahead of her, to tell the two – his two _wards_ , she catches herself thinking, and is surprised by how right it feels – that he’ll let the two of them know everything that’s going on back at the farm, outside of the public eye, where the kids can rage and rant as much as they want to. And they will, she fears. Who wouldn’t, faced with that diagnosis?

The two boys are surprisingly docile, definitely worried, but trusting in Buggy’s judgement for now, she thinks, as she’s walking in a bit of a daze behind the three of them.

That’s… new.

Unexpected.

Yet, it’s not unwelcome, no, not unwelcome at all.

The whole walk back is spent in silence.

Sooner than she wants to, they’re already back at the fence surrounding her farm.

The four of them wander into the living room together, bringing in the ominous atmosphere with them.

She’s a doctor.

She’s supposed to be there, to clear up anything that might need explaining.

Yet, when Buggy shoos her out of the room with nary a look, nary a word exchanged between them, she’s glad.

A weight falls off of her shoulders and she’s overwhelmed by grateful relief that he’ll take over from there.

Still, she’s feeling incredibly guilty.

She should have known, could have noticed, _should have seen_ -

The signs were barely there for them to see.

It frustrates her that Shanks hid them.

And Buggy – the younger – helped.

That’s most likely the case.

Never alone, eh?

Only together.

* * *

The stare-off doesn’t last long, before Shanks averts his gaze.

“You’re ill.” Buggy opens with. Not the most diplomatic line he’s ever used. Then again, he’s never had to tell two kids an uncomfortable truth that’s hanging between the three of them like a knife, ready to fall and slice up any one of the three people in the room at any given moment.

There’s no sense in beating around the bush – the two children are already well aware that something’s going on, something wrong, something bad, have probably already counted two and two together and determined that any and all doctors are out for their blood.

While Buggy won’t fault them for being paranoid and mistrusting in general, he’s exasperated at the fact that they’re seemingly doing it for different reasons than they logically should.

See, he’s no stranger to distrusting medical professionals. But when it comes to the one they’re currently _sharing living space with_ , the pirate captain’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

And in this case, it might even be life-saving.

When that illness has had time to develop, he doesn’t know. Can’t remember Shanks falling ill at all, this early _~~into their journey **on the Oro Jackson**~~_ \- and no, he has to stop thinking that. An uncomfortable feeling spreads throughout his stomach, landing in his throat and making him take deep breaths in the hopes of dispelling the thought and everything it brings with it.

They’re not there.

_They’re not gonna be there._

_~~Roger’s not the one who’s ill here, keep it together, Buggy!~~ _

“I’m… it’s not something harmless, is it?” Shanks meeting his eyes head-on brings him back to the conversation to be had. The boy gulps audibly, before asking, “It’s… _bad_ , isn’t it?”

And Buggy just about wants to tell him no, that it’s not. It’s not anything to be concerned about, he’s got everything under control and nothing’s wrong, everything’s as it should be.

He chokes on the words, and not even garbled sounds make it out of his mouth when he opens and closes it.

After all, he couldn’t prevent it, could he?

Not his own capture, nor his re-capture.

 _Not the interrogations_ , _**the torture,** **~~the execution-~~**_

_Neither his own,_

**_nor that of his captain’s son_ ** _,_

**_~~nor the execution of Gol. D. Ro-~~ _ ** ~~~~

He chokes on the words, his breath stuttering and his limbs trembling.

Glassy-eyed, he only just manages to force out, “It’s not. Harmless. At all.”

The boy might die.

Mere weeks, and He. Might. D _ie_.

All of a sudden, the possibility of that is simultaneously way too close and the cure way too far away.

No Buggy-and-Shanks or Shanks-and-Buggy any longer.

A hole opens up right in his stomach.

The thought is unbearable.

Buggy feels dizzy.

His hands form fists.

Douke no Buggy is a _coward_.

First and foremost, he knows how to flee.

His usual modus operandi of choice is to _move away_ from danger.

But.

No one ever said cowards can’t flee _towards_ a solution, if it presents itself to them.

In the view of two boys uncertain about their future and their health and a roof over their heads, the decision is as easy to arrive at as Logue Town was for him in this time period.

( _Later_ )

( _He’ll deal with the time travel, later_ )

( _Preferably when he’s not got two children watching his every move_ )

As soon as the decision is made in his mind, he is able breathe again, feels his lungs expand with every inhale and deflate comfortably with every exhale. The hole closes, just a smidgen.

He’s doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breakdown. I forgot to add the breakdown in my warning up above.  
> Ah, well.
> 
> I'm back to ~6k word chapters, doubt anyone's complaining, though. XD  
> The bulk of this chapter (4.5k words plus) have been written on the 16.08.2020, just saying.  
> Additionally, this chapter marks my 300k words milestone on AO3! I've successfully put online >300k words by now O.o that's, woah. Just, woah.
> 
> I've still got my 40-hour-workweek and am still doing lots for the [Women! Wanted Zine](https://womenwantedzine.tumblr.com) which I'm very excited for and other projects of mine that I can't seem to leave alone... XD (some of you may have already noticed the results of Corazon Week 2020 and the Set Sail Exchange in my "Works" page, for example)  
> I'm keeping busy, is all.
> 
> How are we at 2k hits already? XD this fic is barely four months old?
> 
> As per usual: thank you very much for reading! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!!!
> 
> If you've got the time and are in the mood to, I'd appreciate it greatly if you dropped me a comment? :D


	9. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re good at finding treasure, Buggy, and I’m good at beating the baddies up! We’ll make an awesome team!”_
> 
> There’s,
> 
> There’s still that, right?
> 
> That,
> 
> that he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see, what'll await you in this chapter?  
> Preparation for Drum. Several breakdowns, one almost-breakdown. And more preparation.  
> A mystery character - new phone who dis? - and oh, some plot, too, hi there! * _waves cheerfully_ *
> 
> Enjoy~!

_On n'est jamais tout noir. On n'est jamais tout blanc. On est tout simplement Porteur ou pas d'espoir._

_(One isn't ever all black. One isn't ever all white. One is quite simply in Possession of hope, or not.)_

~Serge Bilé in _Sur le dois des hippopotames_

* * *

Shanks' feelings are two-fold. Shock at the unpleasant surprise prevails, yet there’s more. Because he doesn’t feel bad. But something’s ostensibly wrong with him.

Shouldn’t he feel something looming on the horizon, ready to take him, if that were the case? The boy hasn’t known that there exist versions of illnesses that could be deadly but... unremarkable, in their symptoms. For the most part, he is told.

The red-hair blinks as Ludy whizzes around the room, Buggy at his side, as has become habit, and the room a typical whiteness of a doctor’s office. She’s certified, isn’t she? Doesn’t make him less wary of the multitude of contraptions and things in the room with them that he can’t make heads nor tails of.

Shouldn’t he feel bad?

The fact that any pain, any discomfort – besides that weird itch – is absent disturbs him more than anything, really.

Buggy’s with him.

(And oh, now he regrets asking the younger of the two to keep quiet, not to worry, to not _tell_ – because who is there _to_ tell? – but at first it hasn’t felt more serious than a mosquito bite)

But he should have been more wary, more sceptical, because mosquitoes don’t bite him, usually.

(It’s Buggy they bite – Shanks is the luckier of the two, always has been, always will be – and despite him doing his utmost to shield the boy it rarely works)

And it probably is his fault now, that Buggy’s worrying and that Buggy’s wearing himself down and that Buggy’s the one not feeling well right now.

(Shanks has never been much of a worrier, preferring to take the world by storm and think about the repercussions later)

Trouble is, once the repercussions and consequences of his actions come to light, it’s rarely him that they hit but rather the people around him who’re collateral damage at the worst of times – and, oh, he won’t have to worry so much about worrying other people soon, will he, if _he’s_ the one that’s ill....

“Here, hold this.” a determined command digs him out of the thinking hole he’s fallen into. Shanks blinks as Ludy hands him a carton box filled with... salves.

The boy looks up in askance but passively lets her fill his and Buggy’s hands with medical materials that the doctor thinks they’re gonna need. The silence is oppressive. He’s not usually this quiet, this contemplative, this withdrawn.

Ludy's attempts at a smile fall flat on their face. It’s useless, isn’t it?

He’ll smile in the face of the unavoidable, the inevitable, when it’s anywhere near a good, honourable kind of death. Dying of an illness is anything but, Shanks fears.

Here, the opponent he’s supposed to be fighting is invisible, unremarkable in anything but its consequences.

The boy’s... afraid. Terribly so.

A vice grips his heart, squeezing life out of it as if there’s no tomorrow to be found anywhere... and maybe there isn’t. Maybe he’ll only live for a few more hours, at most?

Who’s to say? Couldn’t one die of any number of things? At any possible point in time?

It’s not- it’s not the end of it, for him, yet. And mayhaps it won’t be.

( _He sure hopes it won’t, oh, he hopes_ )

An illness gives him time, right, to fight it? There’s yet an end to be seen.

( _It’s not- not true, right? T’was a mistake, right?_ )

And, and. He doesn’t _feel_ ill. Who’s to say they didn’t diagnose him wrong?

( _Not he, not sick with an illness that’s deadly, not_ him)

No way will he leave Buggy alone, no way. What would the boy do without him?

( _Not true not true not true not true not true not true not true not-_ )

Be hurt more – _even if he’ll have that man to rely on, now, too_ – and worry and cry more.

( _If he tells that to himself often enough, maybe he’ll come to believe it as well_ )

“Shhhh, breathe with me.” A hand on his shoulder breaks him out of his funk. His head snaps up to have his eyes focus on the beady eyes of- it’s someone he trusts, in any case, no matter if his brain currently doesn’t compute the name. A round red nose is right in front of him, swaying unsteadily with every breath he takes.

“Can you hear me? Listen, Shanks. Breathe.” His breath is coming in gasps, he feels lightheaded and a little bit dizzy and his chest hurts a little.

“One. Two. Three. Four.” The body in front of him expands and oh, Shanks has seen balloons do that once, a long time ago, hasn’t he –

“One. Two. Three. Four.” the white balloon deflates.

It’s made of cloth that drapes funnily across it, and something’s niggling at Shanks to _pay attention, goddammit, the clues are there!_ But the redhead is too busy gasping for breath to do much more than survive at this point in time.

Almost without much effort on his part, though, his chest starts following and mirroring the movement, slowing his heartbeat – his heart _beats!_ – to a less frantic pace and successfully calming him down.

His trembling eases somewhat.

His fear recedes.

His eyes blink.

Slowly.

Languidly.

As if waking from a dream.

_~~Or a nightmare-~~ _

It’s...

okay,

again,

to be.

* * *

For his part, the younger of the two is worried sick.

He’s not-

he hasn’t ever-

it has so far always been **_him_** who-

And now Shanks is the one who’s in need of help. In need of **_real_** _help_ , not just the fumbling, amateurish kind that they’ve had to rely on ever since- ever since.

It sounded like he was dying. Like he was suffocating right in front of Buggy’s eyes and _going, and going to **leave** -_

Shanks needed an adult. And Ludy hadn’t been able to break through to the red-haired almost-teenager, even though she’d managed to get him to sit down, and neither had Buggy and neither had Buggy's tears and the boy had been at his wit's end, grasping at straws and then in had come their salvation.

Right through the door, as if he’d been called for or known that he’d been needed- as if he’d had a sixth sense for their kind of trouble all along, he’d stopped in the doorway, arrested all movement, he’d stopped in his tracks and frozen, albeit briefly, before he’d sprung into action and made a beeline for Shanks-

Made a beeline for Shanks and _helped_.

Buggy’s feet give out from underneath him – he’s only just able to make it to another chair, not far, never far from _Shanks_ – and it’s... freeing.

To have someone else, to have another person there who _cares_.

About Shanks.

Who worries.

For Shanks.

And who knows exactly what to say how.

To get through to the stubborn boy.

The blue-haired younger of the two slumps into the chair, exhausted beyond measure. He can’t think, can’t-

Can’t.

It can’t be Buggy-and-Shanks no longer.

Can it?

What good is he to the red-head, if he can’t even be of _use_ -

_“You’re good at finding treasure, Buggy, and I’m good at beating the baddies up! We’ll make an awesome team!”_

There’s,

There’s still that, right?

That,

that he can do.

It’s- it’ll be easy.

He just needs a treasure map.

And then, then he can.

He knows he can.

( _He can_ )

Next he wakes, it’s to the rhythm of a swaying, the rhythm of a swaying, back-and-forth, side-to-side, and he wakes – _he wakes? –_ to the deep, deep rumbling of a quiet voice, reverberating off of the ribcage he’s resting besides and tumbling softly through the air.

“It’s a good thing the farm’s not far,” the sound is... amused. Scoffing but amused. Ironic?

He’s being jostled minimally and his feet don’t- don’t touch the ground. And he may be a bit out of it, may be a bit besides himself with worried-grateful-relief, but there’s something, some energy, some air, curling protectively around him, “or I might complain about my arms falling off.”

It’s... comforting.

Hazy eyes open to regard their surroundings warily. Buggy’s... safe. There’s Shanks right there, his disturbance in the... air... a familiar blob bobbing close by Buggy’s head.

What’s more, there’s... that man.

That blue-haired man with a ponytail full of Buggy’s hair and a bright red nose just like Buggy’s and sporting Buggy’s _name_ , to top it off and... it’s... alright.

The man’s chest rumbles underneath him as he huffs, definitely amused now, and addresses Buggy, with his eyes steadily, steadfastly directed to the front, to where they are heading towards Ludy's farm.

His voice is even when he informs the boy dryly, “You fell asleep back in the office. Ludy's organising some stuff, so she stayed back.” A short pause follows before he goes on, adding, “Shanks is... alright.” Buggy thinks that there’s an uncomfortable, unspoken-of _“for now”_ attached at the end of that sentence and he swallows all protest that comes up within himself at the mere thought.

Buggy’s brain is foggy, slow in all the wrong places and sluggish at putting two and two together, yet the thought that all Shanks could have left is “for now", a time span between an unerringly, unfailingly hopeful yesterday and this- this outrageously maddening thing- whatever this _thing_ that’s looming in the future is, in the end, or may turn out to be, the _Mere. Thought.-_

Is unthinkable.

Non-existent.

Until proven to _be_.

Buggy will deny it.

Will refuse its existence.

Will avoid looking at reality and take a break from it all.

The swaying halts shortly, before continuing on. Through a fence, through a door, over the wooden floor, the carpet, turn slightly right, then up the stairs and, a pause, a hesitation, a door opens, to the right, then straight ahead and the hands – strong, reliable arms and a reticent-but-forthcoming man on their ends – lower him onto something soft.

With a sigh, he absent-mindedly catalogues the house’s two other inhabitants on the lower floor.

No one’s quite happy with the situation.

But that’s, that’s something he’s good at, right?

_“You’re good at finding treasure, Buggy, and I’m good at beating the baddies up! We’ll make an awesome team!”_

That’s a fact.

The sun’s shining, the sky is blue and there’s always treasure to be found at the X marked on a map.

They’d just have to find a map, first.

Then Buggy would do the rest.

After all, he’s good at it.

He can do this.

( _He can_ )

* * *

Ludy’s going through her reserve medicine salves, in the hopes of finding one that could be of use to the boy in the meantime, to help with the itching and maybe draw out the moment when-

She’s in the middle of looking through her skin ointments, when a call on her Den Den Mushi interrupts her thoughts.

“Purupurupuru! Purupurupuru!” Turning towards it in bemusement, she makes a beeline for the thing. Who could be calling her?

“Gatcha” the snail says.

“Ah, Ludy? Hello.” the voice of her colleague sounds tin-like through the speaker.

“Oh! I didn’t expect a call from you this soon?” she exclaims, surprised. After all, they’ve left that doctor’s office not all that long ago…

“Yeah, I know. Sorry about the interruption?” he sounds apologetic.

“Uun, no harm done.” She shakes her head, then gets down to business. “What can I help you with?”

“I have a request for you. To look over a patient’s file, to confirm a hypothesis, if you’re not too busy currently?”

After what he’s done for her and her employees, she’s quick to agree to the request. “Sure!”

The relief can be heard in his voice, as he ventures on, “The patient’s Dr. Deron’s – if you could head over to his office, he’s got the file on hand and would welcome a third opinion on this.”

“You’ve already been asked to have a look, then?” Ludy concludes, amused.

“Yes. I’ve already given my opinion to him as well. But it’s a complicated case file, so he’s asked me to recommend who else he could ask for their opinion and I’ve mentioned your name to him. Seeing as you’re just starting out and have only recently opened up shop, your view on this may be a less biased one and bring new ideas to the table. And, who knows? It could help the patient, too, to better deal with the thing.”

The monologue makes her even more curious to work on this. What illness is it, that it makes her older and more experienced colleagues second-guess themselves like this?

“Yes, that does sound intriguing to work with. I’ll head over to Dr. Deron’s as soon as I’m done for today.” The good thing about being self-employed: one can close up shop – within reason – whenever one had an emergency on hand. Her clients tend to understand that a doctor closing their office is a dire matter, indeed, and only happening in the most urgent of times.

“Good. Thank you, he’ll appreciate it.”

“Gatcha.” The snail sounds as the receiver is put down on the other end.

A disease that has her colleagues ask for not only a second, but a _third_ opinion. From a beginner doctor, moreover. That sounds like a rare disease, or, at least, one that’s hard to classify. Her mind whirling, she puts down the snail and slowly goes back to her task, conscientiously moving from one flask to the next to determine whether or not they’d help the blue-haired boy in her care, while at the same time thinking ahead about which way is best to take to Dr. Deron’s office at this time of the day and hoping that maybe she could make a short detour to the farmhouse and bring Shanks to, well. Just to get a third opinion, for herself? If the boys don’t want to come with, she could always just send them to the market for some shopping late in the day.

And maybe head to a restaurant, thereafter? Spoil them a little?

That sounds like an idea they might like.

( _and if it eases her conscience, well_ )

( _she didn’t notice, did she?_ )

( _that the boy’s this ill_ )

* * *

The very same evening, everything's clearer, more organized and oh-so-much worse than it was just hours before.

Because they’re going to the Grand Line, aren’t they? They’re gonna have to, if they wanna go to Drum.

And Buggy weeps crocodile tears mixed with a quarter of real ones because they’re going to the Pirates' Graveyard and he’s only, oh, spent all his lifetime avoiding that.

Naturally, there’s no merchants' ship able to take them with it as it traverses the Calm Belt on its usual route – or, heck, even Reverse Mountain would be alright to cross on a bigger ship –and now the three of them have to do that on their own? Where’s a convenient Emperor of the Seas if you need one to bully Sea Kings into behaving? At this point, Buggy might even let himself be convinced to take a marine’s vessel, if it gets them to Drum safely....

...

“ _Absolute_ ”

White.

Yeeeeh, no. On second thought, scratch the marine vessel, that’s a last resort, and only if its unmanned to begin with.

No need to start a war over a vessel when he’s no intention of doing more than borrow one. Maybe. With a safety net in place to fall back on, should something go wrong. Something always does.

And can he just complain about how frustrated he is that the only merchants' vessel going to Drum of course happens to have left for the bloody winter island just the morning the day before?

Because of course it did.

Sometimes, Buggy just can’t seem to catch a bloody break, can he?

The world’s unfair. What else is new?

Then there’s the matter of young Shanks who’s terminally ill. Him hiding any symptoms was practically a given, what with how skittish the two boys have been from the start. He’s not surprised in the least that Shanks managed to bully the younger version of Buggy to keep quiet about it, either. Nonetheless, why does it have to be Sea fever? Were it any other illness, a cough, a fever, the measles – he’d have known what to do to make the boy feel better. But this?

This is unacceptable, is what it is. Why can’t he catch a flipping break?

“The world’s freaking unfaaaaaaaair!” Buggy whines into his poor excuse of a pillow, for once alone in the farmhouse and allowing himself to wallow in his misery.

Weeeeeeell, in a small portion of it, at least.

(No way can he allow himself a proper breakdown now, one that’s anywhere near appropriate for his situation and the fuck-up that poses as his life, not when he knows Shanks-and-Buggy and Ludy will be coming back from Ludy’s friend’s doctor’s office anytime within the next few hours)

(Not yet, he can’t yet let everything come crashing down on him 'cause once he does he doesn’t think he can make it stop and then what if they see him like this, _then_ what will-)

(No. No time-out for Buggy the clown, not now, not at this particular point in time)

( _ ~~But when else-?~~_ )

And then he faintly notices a presence practically rushing back to the farmhouse, skipping over the fence in the person’s haste to get closer and closer-

The front door opens and closes with a mighty crashing sound downstairs-

And next, steps trample up the stairs-

To come to an abrupt halt-

Right in front of his door.

It’s- Ed.

Eddie.

The teenager is gasping audibly, then his aura visibly gathers itself on the other side of the door, the boy’s drawing a breath and then,

 _Knock_.

The knuckles he’s bouncing off of the door give off a clear sound. Buggy’s successfully startled, halfway down the lane towards a breakdown that he didn’t want to have anyways. Huh. That’s some good timing that the kid has.

Another knock sounds and pulls him out of his contemplation. He clears his throat before speaking, trying to get rid of the roughness he can feel has lodged itself into it while he hasn’t been looking.

“I- er. Come in, I mean.” His voice is a tad scratchy but deep enough to convey a calm state of mind that he’s taken to feigning lately. Yet, it’d do – none of the people here would be able to tell, the only persons capable of doing that aren’t here, after all, _Shanks ~~ain’t~~ -_

With his eyes shifting left and right lighting fast, he tries to ascertain that there’s nothing incriminating – or, rather, _more_ incriminating – lying around than the bag and a few clothes he possesses. That he legally owns, at that.

( _He got possessions, again, things to keep track of. Buggy still can’t get over that._ )

A moment later, the door to his room opens and, a tad hesitantly, suspiciously so, for all that he’s made a ruckus nigh moments before, Eddie shuffles in.

For a time, silence is all that reigns in that room, as the two simply stare at one another, one genuinely confused, the other nervous. Buggy hasn’t gone out of his way to do anything with the teenaged boy and other than some, general, infos about him that he’d picked up while living with that family of three, he doesn’t know him. Not like he knows his younger self, or Shanks.

As it is, he furrows his brows and kind of roughly demands the boy get on with it, saying “Well?” out loud. Inside, he grimaces at the delivery. It’s not the boy’s fault he’s been in the middle of a… breakdown-thing that he didn’t want to have anyways.

The teenager visibly startles at his demand, snapping to attention and grinding his teeth for a moment, seemingly deliberating over something briefly, before telling the clown, “There’s… I- you know how I like pirates?”

What an unusual opening. Bemused, Buggy blinks, silently urging him to go on with a small nod.

“Well, there’s… uhm. I’ve been, uh, corresponding? With people. Friends. And, uhm. Well. About pirates, mostly, and we’ve exchanged letters and they’ve sent me trinkets from around the world and it’s amazing, did you know that there’s Fishmen pirates out there? And huge people, giant-like – maybe even giants, if I get Den to confirm it-“

“Spit it out!” Buggy interjects, partly to cut off the senseless rambling, partly to make the boy come to the point of his visit and excitement. Has to be something good, maybe even something big, to get the usually-rather-withdrawn teenager that excited. The ex-captain’s wary about possible repercussions already.

Exasperated, the blue-haired man thinks that he’s almost forgotten that there’s potentially three trouble-making boys in that farmhouse, not just two, older than the other two the third though may be. A sigh is the least of his worries, he feels, although at least this one’s not his responsibility. Well, not directly, at least.

“Anyways. Uhm. Den’s here, now.” Ed imparts his knowledge on the clown, sounding all-important like a royal messenger and very much as though Buggy ought to be able to follow and know who that is from the name alone. Which, no, he doesn’t. On both accounts.

“Who’s Den?” he asks, when the silence permeates the room for too long again.

“He’s uhm. A friend?” Eddie fumbles visibly, seeing as he’s apparently expected Buggy to easily recognise the name and kind of despairs that he didn’t. “The acquaintance of my fisherman friend down at the pier? The one with the Fishman kid?”

A… Fishman kid? At Logue Town?

Buggy frowns.

What’s a Fishman doing this far from Fishman Island? Or, from the Grand Line, for that matter? This still _is_ the East Blue, correct?

When did his world tilt this much to include interracial relationships in the most peaceful of all Blues? And it stay under the radar as much as that he hasn’t been at all aware of such a thing even so much as _existing_ until now?

The clown captain doesn’t know what to say to that declaration. Speechlessness is the least of his problems, he thinks, slightly hysterically wondering when his reality has shifted – after all, Ed, little, unassuming teenager Eddie, has a fisherman friend who’s got a Fishman kid.

That sounds… like the start of a sailor’s tale.

A teenager who’s a pirate fan knows a fisherman who’s got a Fishman kid.

Unfortunately for Buggy, the tale has more truth to it than it does fictionality.

Stone-faced, Buggy blinks. And wonders what the world will throw at him next.

“Anyway, uhm. Den’s here. Visiting them. And he’s leaving tomorrow with a ship heading for the Grand Line. I thought uhm. Maybe you could uh- I mean, they’re not one of the usual Merchants’ Ships going to and fro all the time, but they did seem like they’d take on helpers? If you asked?”

That’s.

A way out.

To the Grand Line.

A way to the Pirates’ graveyard.

They didn’t need to go farther than Drum.

But now they have a form of transport, possibly, available to them.

That’s more than they had earlier. And Buggy’s mouth is dry, his eyes glazed over, as he thanks the boy for his efforts.

“I’ll come with you to the pier? Is that what you wanted to tell me? Just, uh, let me get ready first?” the clown looks at his few belongings.

The boy looks like a weight has fallen off his shoulders now that they are on the same page. “Yes. I’ll. Uhm. Be downstairs? In the kitchen.” he says and heads off, closing the door behind him as he goes.

Buggy exhales a breath. “ _Unexpected_ ” doesn’t properly explain the bombshell that’s been dropped on him just now.

A Fishman kid.

In the East Blue.

To be fair, weirder things have happened.

_But all of those have happened on the bloody Grand Line!_

…

Great.

Well.

Ah, screw it.

After Time Travel, who’s he to judge?

Okay, so there’s a Fishman kid in Logue Town.

The man shakes his head to clear it, not quite believing his thoughts.

Of much higher priority is that they have a way to Drum, now. Hopefully. Possibly.

Steeling his nerves, shaking his head once more to get all the cotton balls out and Start. Thinking. once more, he moves to get to his feet and grab some essentials for heading out. Should he need to bribe the sailors, he will not be caught unawares. A bag is quickly packed with some Beri thrown in and slung over his shoulder in the very next moment.

They may have a way off Logue Town and out of the East Blue.

Mayhaps even a safe one, one that’s not “Steal a boat that’s hopefully coated with sea stone to ward off monsters of the sea and possessing a convenient weapons chamber to fend off the mostly landbound monsters, too”.

“ _Can’t be worse than what my nightmares can come up with_ ”, he thinks to himself and exits the room, making a mental note to lock the front door, too, seeing as the house will be empty by then, with not even Haro manning the fort. They’ll need to hurry if they want to make it back before the sun goes down.

* * *

Buggy and Shanks are- they’re together. And Ludy’s just brought them home after their evening out. The restaurant has been a surprise, but not an unexpected one.

( _ ~~One has to be blind **and** deaf not to see the effort she’s pouring into making them feel better~~_)

( _ ~~Not her fault, is it, that Shanks is ill, that Buggy’s not told and nothing’s better now~~_ )

( _ ~~So what if they feel slightly smug about having inhaled the food there~~_ )

( _They’re growing boys, after all, and growing boys need food_ )

( _They probably ate her out of a week’s salary back there_ )

( _She’s fired them. They’re even now, they wager_ )

The two of them are sitting together, both on their respective beds on their respective sides of the room, opposite one another, and only barely bearing the silence that has fallen over them. Shanks is frowning.

“So-" the next word sticks in his throat. The look that Buggy’s throwing him has none of the sympathy he expected and all of the judgement the younger boy can dish out. _So what_ , indeed. The redhead is the one that looks away first and grinds his teeth.

Stubborn he may be, his best friend can easily look through him and see the turmoil going on behind his eyes. And what a tangled knot he’s harbouring! There’s the confusion about the thing that’s hanging over him like a knife, the ominous death-bringing omen of the diagnosis that he doesn’t quite want to believe in or lend credence to at all.

If he doesn’t believe in it, does it make it go away? Does it ease the pain, when it inevitably comes?

Calming himself down by counting his breaths, One, two, three, four, In – One, two, three, four, Out, he imagines a white balloon, wrinkly and old, blowing up again and deflating. For one long moment, all is quiet between the two. Drawing breaths is getting easier by the minute.

Then, Buggy licks his lip and pipes up, “If, that’s.” the words jumble together to not form a single sentence that Shanks can make sense with and he waits – patiently, he’s got time to let Buggy formulate what he wants to say, doesn’t he have this much time at least? – for the blue-haired boy to get his thoughts in order.

A balloon.

White.

In, One, two, three, four. Out, One, two, three, four.

A door opens and closes downstairs, carefully, as if it’s a normal time for them all. It’s late at night and dark out. Has been, for at least two hours, from what Shanks can remember.

* * *

Downstairs, Buggy blinks against the light glaring at him. The way back has taken him longer than expected. Well, at least he made Eddie head back earlier, while he’s still been in the throes of discussing details with the sailors, together with Den.

And hasn’t _that_ been a bombshell.

He’s barely recognised the guy.

But they’ve met, before.

As it was, Buggy’s barely managed to pull his jaw off the floor. Closing his eyes and shaking his head a little bit, though he knows it doesn’t help much, he properly steps into the living room of the farmhouse he calls his home for the time being. Not for much longer than another half-day, but he’s the only one to know that so far, isn’t he?

No harm surprising the other occupants early in the morning with the news.

A mischievous little grin alights on his face as he makes his way into the kitchen to prepare himself a midnight snack. Seeing Ludy make pour herself some juice there, he clears his throat to announce his presence to her. When she turns around, she looks… drained. Tired but holding it together admirably, in his eyes.

( _Better than he’s doing, by far_ )

“Hello,” he greets her quietly and is greeted back. Peaceably, he shuffles over to the counter to make himself a sandwich. Eyes on the ingredients, he continues to inform her, “There’s a ship leaving the port tomorrow. It’s heading for Alabasta.” A furtive glance is thrown at the woman sipping at her juice as she’s leaning against the counter, who’s listening attentive but bleary-eyed with sleep noticeably tempting her, “They’ve been looking for a few people to hire. I’ve offered my services in exchange for a safe journey to Drum for me and my… wards.” And, well. They are, aren’t they?

Oh, he’s appointed himself as their caretaker now, hasn’t he? He ought to inform them sometime, he thinks to himself, slightly hysterical with the thought.

“That’s. That’s great!” some life enters her eyes at that. “That means you’ll be leaving tomorrow? They’ll make a stop at Drum?” she asks, probably wanting to make sure she heard right.

“They’ll make a stop at Drum.” he affirms to her. Visibly, a load is taken off her shoulders, at that.

“That’s great news.” she confirms, more to herself than to him, it sounds like. Perking up, she says, “I’ll have to inform June! Make sure she prepares a room!” Energy he didn’t think she’d still possess at such a late hour, after such an exhausting day, seems to fill her up to the brim and she heads to grab a pen and some paper to write down what he knows is a to-do list for the very next day.

“I don’t want to impose…” Buggy hedges, biting his lip. They’ve done so much for him, the last time he’s been there. When he’s been stranded, alone and without the means to do or buy a thing for himself.

“But you’re worried. That’s only natural. I’ll tell June you’ll be visiting, shall I?” Ludy repeats, patiently waiting for his confirmation.

A brief pause encompasses the two, as he contemplates his reasoning.

What other option is there?

His answer settles it.

“Thank you.”

* * *

One floor above them, Buggy the boy exhales noisily. Gulps audibly. Then says, “I’m not leaving you alone.” he finally gets out in a rushed string of words, “That’s- You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

And Shanks is left to blink in surprise.

“Of course you aren’t!” he almost-shouts. In deference to the late hour, he’s keeping his voice quieter than he would were it broad daylight out, but that just means his “shouts” come out more as a kind of hissing than anything else.

On a usual day, on a normal day, Buggy’d make fun of him for it.

And Shanks would get a tick at his eye, annoyed-like.

And Shanks would tease him for his red nose.

And Buggy’d get that tick besides his eye.

And Buggy’d laugh about the red hair.

And Shanks about his blue hair.

And then they’d mock-fight.

And all would be well in the world.

But it isn’t. It Isn’t a normal day, a usual day, for the two of them.

_“You’re good at finding treasure, Buggy, and I’m good at beating the baddies up! We’ll make an awesome team!”_

Another gulp sounds. It’s like there’s something stuck in his throat. Something big. Like the thing that cats sometimes have stuck in their throats. Only, for him, it’s nothing real. He _knows_ there’s nothing there to expel or gulp down. Buggy tries hard not to cry. It’s a losing battle.

The blue-haired boy clings to the words he keeps hearing in his head, the words that he’s heard and which finally – _finally!_ – made him think of the redhead as a friend, long as it’s taken him to accept that.

And now. And now, Shanks is said to die. Soon.

No Buggy-and-Shanks no longer.

No team any more.

_No._

Shaking his head, Buggy resolves to not let it come to that, unknowingly echoing his future self’s thoughts as the blue-haired man climbs the stairs, one at a time, right at that moment.

_No way in hell he’ll let the two be separated, not on his watch!_

_~~Davy Jones be damned!~~ _

At the top of the stairs, he steps towards his room’s door, but stops when he hears muffled sobs come from the door opposite his. The boys’ room.

His heart twinges in undisguised sympathy.

A grimace hides nothing in that empty hallway, with him as the sole witness.

Smoothing out his features, he carefully ambles closer, making sure to make shuffling noises with his feet across the floor as he goes.

Knocking at the door, he announces his presence. “Oi, you two? May I come in?”

A reluctant “Ah. Uhm. Yeah.” from Shanks is enough to tell him that something’s wrong. Though, really, it’s not hard to deduce what’s bothering them.

Not with the day’s revelations.

It’s been a day, hasn’t it?

Phew.

Opening the door, he cautiously enters the room. Only to find Shanks on the younger boy’s bed, with Buggy hiding his face in his shirt and Shanks’ arms around the blue-haired boy, staring at him challengingly. Clearly, it’s not the redhead who he needs to console, right now.

An adult, however, Buggy flounders over what to do or say for a moment there.

“May I sit?” he asks the older boy quietly, keeping his voice soft, even.

He gets a nod for his efforts and heads to the unoccupied bed.

That’s when he notices the shaking.

His heart goes out to them.

“A nightmare?” he asks.

The man knows that it’s not a nightmare that has the boys in this state, that it can’t be – they haven’t even slept yet, have they? Not with those crow’s feet underneath their eyes, they haven’t –, but it’s as much a distraction as he dares bring forth. Suggesting that as a possible way out was a good thing, it turns out, because Shanks’ shoulders relax a smidgen.

“Yeah, sure.” the boy says mockingly, “Let’s go with that.” Or, well, it wasn’t and the redhead can see right through Buggy’s ruse. That’s a viable possibility, as well. Buggy lets out a sigh. Should he not have checked on them in the first place and left them be?

Pensively, he regards them for a moment, then informs them, “We’ll be leaving tomorrow. Heading to Drum. They have medicine there that can help you.” That bit of news makes even Buggy-the-younger swivel around to pin him with a stare that he’s barely comfortable returning.

The blue-haired boy’s eyes are red-rimmed and he’s still clutching Shanks’ shirt.

Buggy-the-man doesn’t make a comment on it and instead tells them to prepare their bags for the journey. That done, he looks at them evenly, two boys who were lost but now are with a direction to head towards.

His shoulders untense.

They’ll be fine.

“Want to hear a bedtime story?” he asks, part-mocking, part-seriously-offering.

A glance exchanged between the two later, they cautiously nod to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooooo that's it from me for now. :) Another glorious 6k added! XD
> 
> I've got a request for one of you dear, diligent readers of mine?
> 
> Should one of you be willing to go through this story for continuity mistakes - not grammar, not simple typos, nothing of the sort, just crass, broad continuity mistakes on my part -, please message me? In a Review to this story down below, or via my [Tumblr](https://aibhilin-atibeka.tumblr.com) or via [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2679121/Leuny), or discord, if you're in one of the ones I'm in, I'm not picky?
> 
> Just, I feel like I've gotten a bit blind to the timeline and where exactly we happen to be in it (I know the year's still the one that Wapol's been born in, but this should be October and I've got the feeling it's still September? and some such) and what I've written about this already, so I'd appreciate some help? XD If one of you is willing to help me in this endeavour?
> 
> Thank you in advance~! =^_^=
> 
> Also, this chapter's kind of not quite steering a little to the side of the main plot... hmm... gotta keep an eye on how it develops, but so far it's good. :)
> 
> In any case, thank you very much for reading, my dearest readers! :D Hope you liked it? Please don't hesitate to leave a comment, if you're in the mood to? They make my day, each and every one of them!


	10. Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right. Usually, Devil Fruit Users are a myth, in the East Blue.
> 
> With the rare exception of the case in which a family can and does hold a grudge, apparently.
> 
> Buggy’s shoulders fall imperceptibly, at the truth he is presented with.
> 
> Nary a word is spoken between them, but he knows that the blue-haired youth in front of him has noticed his change of mood.
> 
> “… after all, Devil Fruit Users are monsters!” the boy finishes his diatribe-slash-monologue with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote fluff. Where'd the fluff come from? I wanted to write angst and now there's fluff? Huh. Ah, well, needed to balance it out, anyways. :) 
> 
> Lessee... what'll await you dear readers in this latest chapter of mine... first, there's tooth-rotting fluff, departure time * _waves cheerily_ *, old phone what's new? and a break-down Buggy-style.  
> Oh, and some plot managed to get in there, as well, hi there! * _waves_ *
> 
> Enjoy~!

_Zu neuen Ufern lockt ein neuer Tag_

_(A new day lures to new shores)_

~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in _Faust_

* * *

“Want to hear a bedtime story?” the man asks, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes that makes Shanks think back to that time at the playground, where the blue-haired man had put the two of them on edge shortly before leaving, swaggering off to who-knew-where.

He and Buggy exchange a wary glance and they nod to him. Can’t harm them, can it, to hear a bedtime story? What exactly constitutes as one, anyways, for someone like the blue-haired man?

( _Shanks still isn’t over the suspicion that he’s some sort of pirate who’s defected from his crew_ )

( _Or a former marine? He ought to have betrayed_ someone _, the boy’s sure_ )

( _No way is he a runaway prince. Rather an assassin-_ )

Shelving the theories – one more outlandish than the next – to a quiet corner of his mind, he pays attention as the man begins telling the story in a deeper voice than he usually sports. It’s rough around the edges, when he says, “Once upon a time, there was an island called Elbaf, where a bunch of giants lived.”

Oh, so a made-up story it is. Shanks listens closely, when Buggy goes on to tell the two, “One day, one of them went to slowly lay down in a comfortable spot he’d discovered in the woods.”

“When he was fully lying down on the soft, soft earthy ground, he quickly fell asleep. At this very spot in the woods, he slept deeply and dreamed a lot, of adventures he wanted to have and of islands he wanted to visit.”

Then the man breaks off, and for a reason unknown to the two boys, something disheartened enters his eyes briefly. The pause doesn’t last long, barely big enough for a sentence to be thrown in – one that Shanks has no idea what it contains –, before Buggy gulps down something heavy, and goes on, “And of the people he has yet to meet.” The voice is thick with an emotion Shanks can’t name, no smile to be seen on the man.

Yet, it’s steady, continuing the tale, “Oh, and he snored so much that the trees shook!” The two boys can vividly imagine that the sounds that the giant’s body emits are shaking the surrounding landscape something mighty, and, for Shanks, the colours are filled in, while Buggy keeps up the retelling of the story.

In his mind, the giant’s a huge being, visible for miles, the trees and grass lush in their greens and browns, and somewhere nearby there’s even birds singing songs around. It’s peaceful. He’d like to visit, someday.

Next, a farmer comes along, on a carriage drawn by eight horses.

When he arrives at the giant’s body, he thinks it is a hill and drives the carriage over it. On the hill, he keeps driving, thinking he is still heading the right way. ( _Shanks knows he’s not and can barely keep from snorting, a smile gracing his face, as he excitedly awaits what happens next_ )

For a long time, the carriage moves over the hill-that-is-a-giant, until the farmer arrives at the giant’s nose. So big is the giant that the two holes of the nose seem like entrances into two caves to the man. He doesn’t know which way to go and wavers a lot between the two.

Finally, he thinks to himself: “I’ll go into the right one!” and he heads straight into the left nose hole of the giant. The voice that recounts the story helpfully changes pit every so often to match the people who’ve got a speaking role in it. Shanks is entranced – he can _see_ the story taking shape right in front of him and is mesmerised with the way that it’s weaved all around him.

“Does it smell?” bursts out of him all of a sudden, his curiosity for the moment taking priority over any other thought. The boy doesn’t think the hole of someone’s nose is a nice place to be in at all, and wrinkles his own.

The man in front of the two relaxes _a lot_ at his outburst, confirming with a nod, “It smells an awful lot in there! It’s a giant’s nose and those aren’t ever not-smelly!” and wrinkling his own nose in shared commiseration. A small hesitation later, he goes on to tell the rest of the story.

“When the carriage was inside the nose, it tickled the giant.”

Because of all the tickling, naturally, the giant wakes up and soon he needs to sneeze. So he sneezes! And the farmer and his carriage fly far, far away.

Upon landing, the farmer only thinks to himself that he needs to pay more attention to his surroundings “…and was from then on more cautious.”

Both Buggy and Shanks are sitting side by side on the edge of Shanks' bed, listening with excitement they’ve rarely exhibited within the last few _weeks_ , nevermind _months_ , and the man is leaning back, sitting fully up on the bed opposite the two and smiling at the two. A comfortable silence envelops them for a few blinks of an eye.

Shanks blinks. “That’s it?” he asks, slightly confused at the ending-that-isn’t-one, in his opinion.

“That’s it.” the man agrees, mischievousness not having left his gaze any.

“That’s the story?” Buggy, his friend, wants to know.

“That’s the story.” echoes Buggy the man, more and more smug with all the questions they ask him.

“That’s not a story. It doesn’t have an ending!” Shanks protests, pouting and frowning.

The blue-haired man regards them evenly, calculatingly, and admits, “The best stories don’t.”

“What do you mean?” the youngest of the three asks, looking just as bemused as Shanks feels.

“The best stories – the ones that are being retold and retold for generations – usually don’t have anything really fixed and ending about them.”

“But that’s not-“ Buggy starts to protest, only to be cut off by his namesake- “Satisfying? Great? Interesting?” he lets a brief quiet hang in the middle between them for a moment, like a plate on the edge of a table where the tablecloth has been snagged by a determined shaggy dog’s jaw, and adds, “You’ll find it can be all of that, still, despite it having no fixed ending.”

That’s… that just sounds mysterious for the sake of it. Shanks huffs, not understanding what the man is getting at. The redhead looks away from the man briefly.

His eyes glance back again soon, though, and he dares ask, his voice near-silent at the start, “… do you know another one?”

The tablecloth falls, but the dishes are left standing, glasses clinking slightly, before righting themselves. And the man smiles kindly at him at first, then smirks and opens his mouth.

* * *

The next morning dawns way too early, Buggy thinks. With a little bit of grumbling – quietly, so that he doesn’t wake the others – he manages to extract himself from the pile of story demanders he’s acquired lately.

So what, it’s the truth!

Menaces that they are, the two boys kept bothering him for stories until their eyes fell shut on their own account, hours later than when they should have gone to sleep. Somehow, they’ve migrated over to Buggy’s bed to better do so and not need to strain their necks or fear falling off the one they were in originally while he was telling the stories.

Really, after the third story, it's been almost frightening, the ease with which they’ve poured over to occupy the spots at Buggy’s sides. The clown has paused in his storytelling for but a minute or two, to get them settled, and then two sets of curious albeit demanding soulful eyes locked back at him, bodies still as could be, and he’s been mutely prompted to finish telling the narrative.

Menaces, both of them.

A sigh escapes him. Can’t be helped, the day has been full of exciting, albeit mostly negative, surprises and news and it is no wonder that the two of them had helpings of left-over energy that needed to be depleted first.

Bit by bit, he is able to detangle himself, one arm that has gotten used as a cushion has needles in it now, thanks for nothing. His eyes roll up and to the other side on their own volition.

Time to prepare their departure, eh? Shuffling over to the door, he silently opens it with both hands and slips out.

Give the man a coffee. Coffee sounds good right about now.

Buggy yawns, jaw cracking lightly as the sun shines into the house.

He enters the kitchen to the sight of Ludy making some orange juice at the counter. His appearance must be as rumpled as he feels and he can barely keep open his eyes.

“I didn’t reach June yet. I’ll call her later.” Ludy informs him swiftly, kindly getting to the point from the get-go. Taking into consideration his tiredness, she half-offers, half-orders, “Sit down, I’ll bring coffee out in a minute.” and goes for an insult in the morning to get his brain cells going, “You look dead on your feet.”

Buggy pouts. Had he been in his own room, he wouldn’t have forgotten to put on make-up. Seeing as he’s been in the boys’ room, though, he thinks he can be forgiven for forgetting about that and venturing downstairs sans putting it on. Crows’ feet are the least of his worries, these days.

( _Although it felt good to be able to disguise those for the slim period of time when he could_ )

“Eddie’s told me about that ship you’ve been hired at. There’s… good friends of his there, so I guess that should calm my nerves,” she says reluctantly, bringing out the coffee to where he’s taken a seat at the table in the living room, the wall behind him and marginally more awake, “but I can’t help but think that the sea is not that good of a place for two boys as young as those two.”

And Buggy blinks as he realises that – she worries. She’s worried for them.

Really, he’s always been aware, in a kind-of faraway, distanced corner of his mind, that there’s got to be some worry there for her to keep going to such lengths for them, but… it’s never quite clicked, before now.

Moreover, it’s not just worry for the boys, he senses. It’s worry for him, as well, and he can’t- he doesn’t know how to react to that, truth be told.

Ludy’s worried for him, as a person, he thinks, dumbfounded, to himself, and doesn’t know what to do with that information.

Here she is, yet another friend he’s somehow managed to make on his fumbling, bumbling journey back in time.

All that does is make him think back to Drum and the people – the friends – he’s left behind there.

What was it they’ve told him, shortly before he ‘d left?

_“Don’t be a stranger!”_

The words come to him in a heartbeat.

Buggy blinks. He’s no Roger. He won’t involve the boys in any wars of his or pit them against his enemies – of which he has none, as of yet, at least none that he is actively aware of for the moment – and he won’t see them hurt on his watch, he’ll make sure of that.

( _In retrospect, the Roger kaizoku have given him detailed knowledge about exactly what things to avoid, in order not to prematurely traumatise two young children in his care aboard a vessel on the Grand Line_ )

( _Should he be grateful or yet more disappointed about that, he wonders_ )

Sipping at his coffee, he gradually shakes the sleep off his shoulders.

“Maybe it would help… if I bought the two of them some throwing knives, to defend themselves.” Buggy muses, a wary eye on her for her reaction to the suggestion.

It’s telling, her calm in the face of that proposal. The Grand Line’s no joke – and she knows that, knows that very well, apparently.

“Might be a good idea. I don’t- Weapons haven’t ever been my forte, so… you’d know best what would work.” Good to know, that she trusts his judgement on that.

The logical conclusion, however, is that they’ll need to go to a weapons dealer before they can head off to the ship. Whelp, can’t be helped. They’ll head there after breakfast. A judging glance is thrown up the staircase. Buggy’s chair scratches the floor as he stands up, a glimmer of some mischievousness in his eyes is suppressed quickly, so as not to alert Ludy to his motives.

Cheerfully, he says, “Well, seems like they’ll need someone to wake them up. Be right back.”

* * *

“The water wasn’t necessary!” Shanks whines in clear repetition of his complaints from earlier that morning.

“Was too! Rising late is not okay aboard a ship, you’ll need to be able to wake up early to work!” is all Buggy counters with, knowing very well that he’s the only one of the three of them who’s officially going to be doing any working on said ship. No need to mention that little tidbit to the boys, he feels, not until they are going to board the aforementioned vessel.

The two boys are looking like bedraggled puppies, following him in clothes that are rumply and wrinkly to boot. Water hasn’t hurt anybody yet, and it won’t hurt anything but the two’s pride, having been pranked like that, Buggy’s sure.

He snorts, remembering their faces when he’s nonchalantly emptied a glass of water on the pile of limbs that the two of them posed as earlier that morning. Certainly, it’s achieved its purpose: waking them up within mere seconds instead of the minutes it could drag out into.

The time he’s spent with them – more than two weeks, is it now? Buggy’s lost track – gave him enough of a notion about what teenagers would be like to wake up in the early morning hours, once they feel comfortable around you.

A chore, that’s what waking one of them is like.

Also, looking ahead at what he can already predict about the chaos the two will most probably land them in – if Shanks is not at least an honorary D, Buggy will eat his shoes – he finds it perfectly justified to enact a bit of petty revenge in advance. Not like Shanks can’t take it and the younger Buggy clearly needed drastic measures to be employed to wake up that morning, at all, his body obviously having disregarded his fainting episode the day before in its entirety as a potential source of rest and regeneration.

Besides, it’s not as though they can’t retaliate, now that he’s opened the prank war on them. Though, do they know that yet...? Eeeeeh, if they don’t know it yet, they probably will find out soon.

He’s a pirate. Not being held to the same standards as society is _is_ kind of his thing.

Plus, the man reserves the right to employ less-than-comfortable means at points when they are kind of pressed for time. Which they are, considering that the ship is leaving in less than an hour. At least they’ve brought everything with them and are ready to board, once they’ve bought the boys' knives.

Fore-armed is forewarned, and all that shtick. Buggy’d do well to equip them to handle things out there. They needn’t do it alone, but he’d rather have them be capable of it, should it come to that, than them surviving on luck alone.

_~~“What doesn’t kill you-“~~ _

No.

He’s not thinking of that, not now.

Some of the old, bottled-up bitterness bubbles up within himself.

The former cabin boy shakes his head to dispel the thought. Wouldn’t do to make the two boys trailing behind him nervous and second-guess his own decisions.

The cobblestone streets are familiar by now, the ruckus caused by the shopkeepers' shouting and advertising their wares a well-known background noise that’s washing over the three of them. The three of them pass by the Antique House on their way to the Weapons Dealer and Buggy is struck with a bit of nostalgia that he can’t get rid of immediately and he halts to stare at it briefly in contemplation.

That’s… right. The Antique House existed, back in his time, too.

Did it look like that?

He can’t quite remember.

His shoulders sag a little at the realisation that he can’t quite… remember, any longer.

Logue Town, the city itself, has always been this familiar place, the well-known cobblestones only adding to the serene sense of homeliness that it exudes from every corner.

Even still… it’s not Buggy’s Logue Town, is it?

Not quite.

Visibly shaking himself and the thought off, for now, he puts one foot in front of the other again and heads their little group towards the Weapons Dealer, again.

Fucking time travel, eh.

Shanks feels like he wants to say something, probably opening his mouth behind Buggy, his eyes boring holes into the clown. However, the blue-haired man doesn’t leave him a chance to, pointing towards a corner ahead of the three and saying, “One more turn, then we’re there.”

When they come upon the building they were headed towards, Buggy looks up at the sign proclaiming it to be the Arms Shop. Something niggles at the back of his head, yet, seeing as he doesn’t remember what it is, he leaves it be for now.

Upon entering the shop, the three turn their heads to look around, the two younger ones more conspicuously than the clown captain does. There’s a black-haired child behind the counter.

Brows furrowed, Buggy addresses the almost-one-browed kid, slightly put-off by the unexpected sight, “Oi, this is an arms shop, isn’t it? What are you doing in here?”

The curtain above the door-like opening slightly to the left of the child, behind the counter, is drawn aside to reveal the benign face of a man smiling with his eyes closed. Another Drum-ian? Eh, who knows. The child is scowling at Buggy, his black hair standing funnily on edge to the boy’s sides and his nose red in silent indignant outrage.

“This is Ipponmatsu, my son, meneer. Hello, esteemed customers! What can I help you with?” he asks, his voice calm and diffusing the situation on all sides, as he lays one hand on the youth’s head and gestures disarmingly with the other.

Slightly mollified by the custom use of the East Blue word for “dear sir” and the explanation, Buggy consciously relaxes his body.

“We’re looking for some” _Weapons? Arms?_ “knives, for these two.” He nonchalantly indicates the barely-teenagers behind him with a finger.

“Daggers, then?” ah, those would fit the bill. Anything so they’ll be able to defend themselves ( _and each other_ ) on the seas. Especially in Grand Line waters, one can’t ever be too cautious.

“What would you recommend?” the ex-captain asks – and is decidedly _not_ _prepared_ for the barrage of information that the shopkeeper lets loose at that.

The boys behind him stare in boggled bemusement and curiosity at the details the man regals them with, before he leads them from one display case to another, taking out one or two daggers and knives to show them off to the two and putting those away again that garner immediate reactions of disapproval from the three of them.

“… and is useful for hunting purposes. Small, easy to wield and use for even the most unexperienced users out there, I’d recommend these ones to start with.” he says, holding up a set of two daggers. Their simple design doesn’t let on that they could be as deadly as the shopkeeper makes them out to be. Still, Buggy knows not to underestimate what a shopkeeper tells you – they may be partial to fancy words and wordings in order to praise their wares, but the ones that understand their craft, the ones that trade and sell craftsmanship of the highest calibre? Those know what they are talking about and are not shy to show it.

This man does give off the feel of one who’s been in the trade for all his life. When Buggy says so, he is reassured that this business has been “in the family for about two hundred years already! And with Ipponmatsu, it’ll see even more years pass by”, the owner’s sure of it. The boast sounds… ridiculous. How can he already know what his kid is going to be like and is going to do with his life, at this point in time?

A second glance at the kid has Buggy reconsider his opinion, though.

And there had to have been an arms dealer in Logue Town, back when he was Douke no Buggy, a feared East Blue pirate. What had that one been called, again? To be honest, he can’t recall a little detail like that. It isn’t as if he’d been to Logue Town all that often, either, back then.

His eyes shift to the side as he thinks back to how he avoided the place like the plague except for, well, once a year.

After all, _his captain…_

_His mentor…_

_~~His father…~~ _

... had earned that much, from him. That he’d visit once a year, that had been a given, even back shortly after the Roger kaizoku had gone and disbanded the crew for good.

A family business, being passed down from the father to the son, that just reminds him of the fact that all that Roger had been able to “pass down” to Shanks and him had been the enemies he’d made, back when he’d still been alive.

The marines had had his body, but his soul, _his will?_ That, he’d successfully passed down to a generation of wanna-be pirates heading out to the Pirates’ Graveyard, to try their luck at finding the legendary “One Piece”.

Buggy startles as a hand tugs lightly at the sleeve of his shirt. He blinks and is presented with a set of three throwing knives. Ah, while he’s been delving into the past, his two charges have moved on and gotten interested in the weapons, have they?

Without a word, he holds out his hands and the weapons are thrust into them with a bit more excess force than is strictly necessary. A quick look up at the boy’s demeanour tells Buggy that the young one has noticed his little spacing-out episode and is not altogether reassured yet that he won’t do so again.

Buggy'd have to stay in the present more. A silent reproach stored as a mental note not to drift off into his thoughts anytime soon, and he focuses his attention on the throwing knives he’s been gifted to... evaluate, he supposes. Their balance isn’t too bad, and the design looks nondescript enough to tell him their market value's not that high, either. Good enough for the start, in his opinion – they can always exchange them for better ones later on.

Off to the side, Shanks is being explained all about his own, newly chosen set of arms by an enthusiastic albeit slightly younger-looking boy.

“… and you can even hit Devil Fruit Users with them! That’s a truly splendid set of daggers!”

Almost unconsciously, Buggy freezes in his perusal of the throwing knives he’s holding. Unbidden, the boy goes on, telling his audience all about how the daggers are one of a kind, impeccably to aim with because of their slight weight and sure to at the very least provide considerable problems for whoever is in their way, the shopkeeper nodding along with the explanation as if he believes that arming oneself against a Devil Fruit User is of the highest priority, when choosing to venture towards the Grand Line.

Right. Usually, Devil Fruit Users are a myth, in the East Blue.

With the rare exception of the case in which a family can and does hold a grudge, apparently.

Buggy’s shoulders fall imperceptibly, at the truth he is presented with.

Nary a word is spoken between them, but he knows that the blue-haired youth in front of him has noticed his change of mood.

“… after all, Devil Fruit Users are monsters!” the boy finishes his diatribe-slash-monologue with.

The shopkeeper is cheerfully and with an absurd amount of pride looking at his boy.

Buggy – the boy – silently moves to Shanks’ side with a politely blank look.

“Ah.” Shanks says, acknowledging the speech, and that’s that.

Buggy barely remembers to pay for the weapons.

* * *

The atmosphere is morose, as they turn the corner towards the pier. A breeze lazily floats by, the waves rushing in the distance.

“Ooooi!” the shout brings them out of their collective funk, although, in the boys’ case, Buggy wagers that they’ve only picked up on his thoughts’ downwards path and are more mirroring it than they understand it. Yet.

He’ll be sure to be cornered later, most probably. Safely ensconced in their cabin, he’d bet on that.

Meanwhile, he sees Ludy, Eddie and even Hako waiting for them at the pier, the woman’s waving in their direction to steer them there.

That’s… nice.

It feels nice.

Once Buggy and his entourage gets closer, he can make out more people behind the three.

Den’s standing to the left, ever-cheerful and grinning. The excitement he exudes is catching, and the ex-captain finds that he has to grin, as well. Then there’s that fisherman, Eddie’s contact who’s made their swift departure possible in the first place – and his little son, as well. What was he called again? Ah, nevermind, Buggy’ll have to ask for it, if need be.

“Buggy! Finally you three are here!” Ludy’s nervous, under that happy expression she’s valiantly wearing. His haki easily picks up on the undercurrent of worry running through the woman. Her former employee puts it to the side, for now, to be dealt with preferably never. Her husband – is Hako her husband? Buggy didn’t care enough to know until now – can handle it.

The blue-haired man has problems of a different kind to sort out, not the least having to do with his two charges.

Who’re looking more and more on edge, now that the time for goodbyes has arrived.

New horizons, eh? Buggy’s never liked to say goodbye much.

As for Shanks, well. The boy’s nothing if not perceptive to a fault. The redhead may not have unlocked his Observation Haki, and he’s still a force to be reckoned with. Particularly with Buggy-the-man being the one as the victim of said reckoning.

He snorts. To say that Buggy’s already looking forward to the conversation they’ll have about Devil Fruit Users is a bit of an understatement. Indeed, he’s practically frolicking around at the mere thought of this awaiting him sometime in the very near future. What joy! _Not._

Considering that his younger self has most definitely set his sights on him and his reaction to the arms dealer’s boy’s utterance, this only compounds his headache-to-be.

Another interrogation with two teenagers ganging up on him. Great. Just what he needs to enjoy the evening.

Not letting his grin slip for as much as a second, the man walks towards the welcoming committee and makes his rounds, pasting a falsely regretful face on to conceal how much it pains him to have to do this, at all.

_Buggy didn’t even know Ace, ~~didn’t know Ace and had no goodbye to say for him-~~_

_~~There was no goodbye to be said, none to be had for Gol D Ro-~~ _

_~~He couldn’t **Say. Goodbye. To. Shanks.-**~~ _

Oh, but he’s saying his goodbyes now. Proper goodbyes they are, with hugs – from Ludy – and handshakes – Hako – as well as promises of gifts of the pirate-y sort for Eddie. The unibrow-ed boy veritably lights up at that. To each their own, eh?

( _The burden he’s shouldered since the arms dealer’s boy’s words lightens, a little._ )

Den’s hugging the little boy – who’s sticking close to his father. Smart move, that, for a half-fishman in Logue Town. Buggy considers that he’s, what, half Shanks’ age? If even that. And yet, he understands the world and how it works. The blue-haired man gives him an approving nod, unnoticed by anyone.

( _And what a surprise that had been, when he’d come here just the day before and seen Den and the half-fishman boy both._ )

( _A half-fishman in Logue Town, Buggy still isn’t over that one – it sounds like someone made up a story for a story’s sake_ )

( _That this boy, this fisherman’s boy of an unremarkable family in Logue Town is what amounts to being Den’s godson was just the cherry on top_ )

( _ ~~The world moves in unfathomable ways, sometimes, Buggy. You’re not always the centre of it, nor are you a main player~~_ )

( _ ~~A man with a dep rumbly, thick voice once said words that he’d never forget in his life, no matter if the man’s long gone~~_ )

( _ ~~Neither he nor Shanks ever forgot the words – or the man, for that matter, for all that he seemingly forgot about them-~~_ )

( ** _ ~~Later, Buggy. There’s time for a breakdown, later.~~_** )

The blue-haired youth at his side is quietly leaving him be. The rush of goodbyes soon trickles out. They’re on time, and the ship will soon leave the harbour.

A little ruefully, a little regretfully, Buggy throws one last glance back at the city, before the three disappear onto the ship. Then, he turns his back to the city he’s spent such a brief-but-enjoyable period of time in and steels his resolve.

After all, they’ve got some medicine to acquire.

* * *

“Purupurupuru. Purupurupuru.” The snail says, relentlessly puncturing the silence of the house. A ray of sunshine falls in through the windows, alighting the living room with a table in its midst, the door to the kitchen being somewhere to the right side of it and a staircase in the back leading to the upper floor.

“Purupurupuru. Purupurupuru.” It rings, before a door opens and is hastily closed again, steps rushing closer, closer, and “Gatcha.” sounds, alongside a few puffs of air being let out.

“Phew! Made it!” the woman’s voice ascertains.

“Ludy?” came the prompt answer from the other side of the phone.

“June! Hi!” Ludy cheerfully answers, still out of breath, but slowly regaining her composure. She’s run to the phone as soon as she’s heard it from out in the yard, so it is no wonder she’s still catching her breath.

“... Are you okay?” her concerned cousin ventures to ask, but she waves her off.

“Yeah, just a bit out of breath. I wasn’t nearby, you know, when you rang?”

“Ah, okay.” Newly reassured, June asks, “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, I only reached Dalton when I called yesterday...” she pauses shortly, gathering her thoughts and then plunges right in, “Anyways, I wanted to tell you that Buggy’s on his way back to Drum. He’s coming with those two kids of his. The ones that helped out at my farm, you remember?”

Ah, that just makes her remember why exactly those three are headed towards Drum. June’s earned the right to know that much, at least. “Shanks is... well. They need Drum's help.” Well, for the details her cousin can always directly ask the source, ne? Ludy doesn’t have to delve in too deeply right then.

Unexpectedly, June’s next questions don’t regard the issue her former employees are saddled with, at all, and take Ludy off guard, “Is Buggy with you right now? Can I talk to him?”

Apologetically, Ludy says, “Ah, no, they’re on their way already. They should reach Drum in two weeks' time. If you could put them up again, I think they’d appreciate that... greatly...” there, she trails off, taking into account the suspicious silence coming from the other side, and frowns with her eyebrows drawing together, “What’s wrong?”

For something has to be wrong, for June not at all wanting to know the facts but rather concentrating on something else, something out of Ludy’s reach…

“Erm... well.” June hedges. She knows not to talk around stuff with Ludy for too long, though, and so resumes her explanation, “Drum is... a little bit different, now.”

A little bit… different?

That sounds strange. Ludy can’t imagine how much it could have changed since Buggy first came to Logue Town. The doctor is not the least bit reassured, however, when June simply continues talking, instead of elucidating her earlier utterance.

“No, that’s not right… Are you-? You’re sitting down, right?” In lieu of answering properly, Ludy does the first thing that comes to mind, whips out a chair from the table and sits down. It doesn’t bode well for the type of news June will be imparting on her if she has to _sit down_ to hear it.

Taking a deep breath, the Drumian rectifies her earlier statement and says, “Drum has changed.”

The two women’s breaths underline the pregnant pause none of the two quite knows how to break.

“Drum has changed a _lot_.”

* * *

They’re given a tour of the ship – here’s the toilets, there’s the command centre, next up are the lifeboats – before Buggy-the-man is put to work. Buggy, the boy, bows out of it, citing a small bout of sea sickness as the reason.

( _He’s never been good at making up excuses on the spot_ )

( _That’s always been Shanks_ ’ _expertise_ )

( _Not for much longer.)_

_( ~~Not if everything goes wrong~~ )_

_( ~~As it does, as it always does **for Buggy**~~_ )

He is scared. Buggy's stomach is in knots, his breathing uneven and shallow. The boy’s sight moves in and out of focus at random intervals.

The blue-haired youth can barely make his way towards the cabin they’ve been given, shutting the door behind himself and falling against it in a bout of weak knees that he hasn’t had since- since- since they’ve been picked up by that man, is it?

The room they’ve been given is swimming in front of his eyes.

They’ve lost – yet another temporary sleeping place of theirs, one that Buggy has tentatively dared think of as- well.

It’s not as if they’re alone, now.

The beds swim into and out of focus in random intervals that have Buggy sit down where he stands, leaning with his back against the door.

Oh, that’s, that’s no good, is it?

If one of the others enters, if _Shanks_ wants to, he’ll be knocked over for sure.

Clumsily, dizzily, he moves to the side.

His focus is shot to all hell.

The boy’s scared.

What if, what if-

What if that illness-

What if it takes-

What if they can’t cure-

_What if Shanks dies?_

As though the air has been cut through, that question lingers in his mind, in sharp, sharp focus and he can’t-

Can barely breathe-

Can barely stay right where he is, right there, with his hands against the floor and the sea as a nearby cacophony of noise, distantly noticeable through the walls.

Buggy can see the beds they’ve been shown – four beds, two to each side, Buggy’s claimed the upper left one just as Shanks has called dibs on the one directly beneath it – and exhales, shakily.

The distance it provides him with, from that, that man, that _other_ Buggy, is on purpose, much as it was a coincidence, at first.

After all, the blue-chaired man doesn’t- he hasn’t- hasn’t yet even managed to talk, not to him he hasn’t.

It’s always been to Buggy-and-Shanks, as though they’re attached at the hip, in that man’s mind, and he hasn’t talked to Buggy-by-himself.

Not to him alone.

Not directly, not yet.

( _And there’s a part of Buggy that appreciates that fact as much as he loathes it, overall_ )

( _There’s a part somewhere within himself that thinks the man’s **right**_ )

( _His constant dependency on Shanks is nothing new_ )

( _ ~~Buggy’s not someone worth talking to, is he?~~_ )

( _ ~~He’d be the first to agree to that~~_ )

( _ ~~And then he’d **leave**~~_ )

But leaving isn’t possible, is it? Not under these circumstances. Besides, he promised! He won’t leave Shanks alone, nor to face this all by himself!

Even if-

Even if he’s scared.

And trembling and weak-kneed.

It’s Shanks who needs their support the most right now. Not him.

He can wait in line, for his turn.

( _Though it’ll probably never come around_ )

There’s... something wet, running down his cheeks. Bemused, he blinks. Tears. What- what time is it, he wonders.

How long has he sat there for, with his hands wrapped around his knees?

The boy feels tired. Bone-weary, he slowly makes to get up and then- and then.

For a moment, he’s disoriented, not knowing what to do with himself and what ought to come next.

Then, he sees the bed. And he climbs in.

Already exhausted from doing this much, he feels his eyelids close and only just manages to think that Shanks is gonna be mad if he falls asleep in the one he’s claimed as _his_ , before doing just that.

Given into slumber as he has, he doesn’t notice the floorboards outside the door creak slightly.

A shadow detaches itself from the wall and silently, stealthily, sneaks off along the corridor, their objective having been obtained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh dear. Another 6k added. Noice!
> 
> >>... and a break-down Buggy-style.  
> I didn't say _which_ Buggy'd break down, now, did I? Teheee~
> 
> To think, the original plot had Buggy arriving and departing for Drum within the first eight chapters... we've well exceeded that, by now. Good thing I re-structured the plot!
> 
> XD I actually wanted to add that, but it didn't work in-text, so here it is:  
> "Drum has changed _a lot_."  
> * _Ominous drum roll in the distance_ *
> 
> Yup yup, that folk tale does sound familiar, doesn't it...? ;D
> 
> On top of all that, we've cracked 60k with this chapter, folks! :D * _is incredibly proud of that_ *
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, dear readers! =^_^=  
> If you'd like to, don't hesitate to leave me a comment~ I rejoice at every single one I get! (and sometimes even dance a little jig, I'm that happy about them)


	11. Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buggy feels small and he hunches in on himself further.
> 
> His problems are not half as important, when compared to those of the older boy, are they?
> 
> Involuntarily, the blue-haired boy finds that he’s put a bit of his lower lip in-between his teeth and is worriedly, lightly, gnawing on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'll await you in this chapter, dearest readers?
> 
> Well, first of all, we'll have ourselves a bit of a breather chapter; some more OCs appear on deck (One Piece apparently has too few characters running around already, who'd have thunk?), an almost-heart-attack (yes, gawds, the boys almost did give _ME_ a heart attack with their stunt - but you'll see what I mean once you read it), a step in the right direction for Buggy (you'll decide which one I mean by this) and a few breadcrumbs leading to the next few chapters' plot... :D
> 
> As for the boys' stunt, **_Please don't do this at home, dear readers!!!_**  
>  Then again, One Piece is full of stuff like that, so... a brief warning for canon-typical violence is warranted here, I guess?
> 
> Enjoy~!

_You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore._

~William Faulkner

* * *

Once aboard and with their current ship, the Antalope, safely on the move away from Logue Town, they’re given a tour, although Shanks only half pays attention to what they’re told. It’s always the same, anyways, isn’t it? _Here’s the toilets, there’s the command centre, next up are the lifeboats_ … Shanks knows that drivel by heart and though the locations of the different parts that constitute a ship differ every now and again, the main locations remain mostly the same, he’s learned.

The redhead’s more concerned with how Buggy – _his_ Buggy, his brother-in-all-but-blood – excuses himself from the tour with one of his least believable excuses. “Sea-sickness”, yeah right. Frowning, Shanks lets the rest of their guide’s words wash over him. The sailor isn’t at fault here, he knows. Something’s been bugging Buggy ( _ha!_ ) for much longer than they’ve been aboard the ship.

True, Shanks is not as versed in reading other people and their emotions as Buggy is, but he’s still the only one to have known Buggy for as long as they’ve been together – for far longer than anyone else whose acquaintance the two boys have made in the meantime, indeed, – and that has to count for something, right?

Always the pessimist of the two, Buggy hasn’t yet let himself fall into the hole he’s been carving for himself since aeons ago. Doesn’t mean he won’t, however, and Shanks fears the day when that happens.

( _Fears losing his best friend in the turmoil_ )

( _Fears navigating unknown waters, alone_ )

( _Fears being left to his own devices, at all_ )

No, he won’t let him. He’ll drag him out of said hole with his bare hands, should he have to.

( _And he’s already making plans to make the blue-haired man snap him out of it in his stead, should he not be there for much longer_ -)

And then the tour is over and done with and Buggy-the-man is put to work and Shanks suddenly has a whole lot of free time on his hands. He blinks and, resurfacing from his thoughts, he wastes none of it and makes a beeline for the cabin the three have been given at the start of the tour.

The need to check on the younger of the three is overwhelmingly present and, had he not dashed off already, he’d have been able to take note of the relieved slump in the older Buggy’s shoulders at that particular worry being taken care of.

* * *

“Your boys, I take it?” a fellow sailor-for-hire asks him and for one moment, he’s utterly blindsided by the question.

 _His boys_ , eh?

Buggy… supposes so. Giving a noncommittal grunt in answer, he concentrates more on sweeping the floor, one of the first tasks given to him in the long list that he has to work through that week.

“The… blue-haired one really does take after you, eh? I’m guessing the redhead comes more after his mum?” A one-sided shrug and Buggy’s focus doesn’t shift from his assigned duty. It really is easier when people come to their own conclusions about the ways of the world, sometimes.

When his eyes betrayingly do stray to his temporary crewmate who's humming a cheerful melody under his breath while sweeping, however, Buggy simply asks him, “What’s your name, anyways?”

Perking up, the man gives him a brief-albeit-dramatic little bow and says, “Ah, Taincur, at your service! Or, well, _not_ , as it were. Pleasure to meetcha, …?”

“Buggy.” The reluctance he puts forth in telling the nuisance his own name manages to make itself known in the shortness of his answers.

“Pleasure to meetcha, Buggy! I’m sure we’ll get along like two fish in a tank!”

… whatever that is supposed to mean. Well, at least he has a name to associate with that annoying co-worker of his. Seeing the conversation closed for the time being, his fellow sweeper goes back to humming a song under his breath and leaves him to it.

Truth be told, Buggy’s still reeling from having met a Fishman in Logue Town, even a day after he’s had it happen. The meeting has derailed his thoughts quite a bit at first, surprise taking over for a few moments, before he could get a grip on himself again and think things through properly.

And, well, he did not know about Den – Fishman Den, shipwright Tom’s _younger brother_ , for heaven’s sake, – having a godson in the East Blue.

( _Is said godson even still alive in_ his _time, Buggy wonders?_ )

The clown captain will make sure to remember the boy’s name – Sapi – and check up on him whenever he finds the time to do so. In this time and, should he find a way back, in his own time, too. For all that the Roger kaizoku did and didn’t do to and for him, Tom has never done anything other than build a home for Buggy and Shanks and been cheerful and kind to be around, and for that, Buggy cannot help but be grateful in return.

First, though, he’s got to make sure his boys survive the journey and that the three of them reach Drum, safe and sound. It’s good that the captain accepted the offer of Buggy working by himself to earn them the safe transit for all three of them in the first place – although he may have downplayed the boys’ ages a little in the negotiation, that’s nowhere near relevant when the captain’s already shaken his hand on the offer.

( _Buggy’s never been known for his honest nature and playing fair_ )

( _It’s both boys that he’s going to protect, whatever it may take)_

( _Buggy’s always worked better with an objective in mind_ )

* * *

Shanks finds Buggy on his bed.

No, correction: Shanks finds Buggy _asleep_ on his bed, on top of the covers as if he’s a newcomer to bedwear and what constitutes proper bed-conventions and bedtiquette.

… not that Shanks is any better, most of the time.

Still, now that they actually have such an item of furniture to call their own, once more, they ought to make use of it and properly, at that.

Shuffling over to the bed doesn’t rouse the blue-haired boy from his slumber. Neither does the bed when it dips down to accommodate Shanks as he sits on it, with his head turned into the direction of the other boy’s head.

His frown grows a little in concern. The younger of the two rarely is as deep a sleeper as this, except for the rare occasion when-

Except for those points in time when-

Except for when he-

He cried himself to sleep, didn’t he? Scurrying closer, Shanks can make out the faint tear tracks on Buggy’s cheeks, just barely noticeable in the light shining in through the single, small porthole that’s located on level with the two upper beds.

Great, guilt’s making him swallow any words he has to say to the blue-haired boy. Waking him seems cruel, in light of that revelation.

The redhead glances away briefly, before his eyes land on the sleeping boy besides him, once more. His shoulders deflate with a nigh-inaudible sigh.

There’s a bunch of stuff that could have made his companion cry himself to sleep, and Shanks doesn’t have the slightest idea about what could have tipped him over the edge.

Was it because they’ve just lost yet another sleeping place that they’ve put their faith in to last them much, much longer this time?

Was it because, for all that the two have lived together with him for more than two weeks, they’re now dependent on what boils down to “some stranger”? Blue-haired, well-intentioned and name-sharing though he is, Buggy has not yet earned any title closer than that of a temporary co-worker, in his mind. No, he's not deluding himself here.

He... tells good stories, doing the voices and all, and indulges them, often.

The man hasn’t just shown them the ropes on the farmstead, he’s listened steadfastly to whatever inquiry any one of the two boys had, answered their questions and even let them choose their own weapons to defend themselves with.

They should be grateful.

They should be happy.

They are cared for.

Yet, he’s lost.

The boy is lost as to what all of that – the caring for them, the providing for them and the constant listening to them – might mean for the three of them, in the future. The man has made no secret of wanting to go away, back when they still were working on the farm.

That plan… hasn’t included them, back then.

Does it, now, he wonders?

Buggy’s sleeping form shivers a little, and Shanks’ eyes are drawn to it. A beat, then he moves to the right, to the foot end of the bed, where he knows that there are blankets stored away, ratty though most of them are. Swiftly, quietly, he pulls one out – a warm one, a woolly one, – and tiptoes back to the other boy’s side. As carefully as he can, he lays the blanket across his friend’s body, taking care to tuck in the edges and make sure all of his companion is covered in it.

That done to his satisfaction, he straightens, again.

Now what?

What’s Shanks supposed to do, until they call him up for work?

He’s not one to go out on his own when he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do aboard this ship – and he can think of quite a few ways on how to put a boy as small as him to work.

Nah, if he can draw out being a cabin boy, he’ll do his best to do that for as long as possible.

But that leaves him with nothing to occupy his own time with, meanwhile.

Irritated, he scratches at his arm in boredom.

It's itching, again.

Oh, right. There’s daggers, isn’t there? Interest peaked, he goes over to their bags that they’ve left in the corner closest to their current caretaker’s bed and unearths one of his latest acquisitions.

Looking it over, he ascertains that it’s not yet gotten even so much as a scratch on it from the short transport to the ship and gets up from his crouch to stretch out one of his hands and do a cool pose, swishing it to the right in front of his body.

This is fun, actually.

He could do a few more of these, couldn’t he?

If he does them quietly enough, he won’t wake Buggy up on accident.

A foot shifts to the left, his left arm moves in a circle to the side and then his right – pokes the air directly in front of him.

The grin that stretches over his face at the successful manoeuver is mischievous and challenging.

“ _En garde!_ ” he thinks in his head at a silent opponent made of thin air and fluidly changes his stance to attempt another slash at them.

Naturally, it is met with success and Shanks has to keep himself from whooping, mindful of the sleeping audience behind him.

Now that he’s vanquished his opponent, he wonders what else he can train with that dagger.

Then he remembers how he’s seen someone throw a short knife up into the air once and catch it and – the idea sticks.

Leaning his head to the left in thought, he contemplates how best to go about trying that trick out himself.

Truthfully, he supposes that the most useful way of training that particular trick would be… just to do it?

Shrugging, he gets into what he thinks is a good position to throw the dagger up in the air.

Glancing up to judge the distance between him and the admittedly low ceiling, he reasons that he can’t throw it upwards too far or the dagger might be left sticking in the ceiling…

Shanks has to figure out a good height to throw it to first, then actually do that.

Weighing the dagger briefly in his hand – ah, it’s got a good handle to grip, that’ll help him catch it later – to test out how much force he has to put into the throw, he thinks he’s ready and braces his feet on the floor.

And then he moves his right hand, and with it the dagger, moves it back first, then to the front, then back and back to the front again and then, when he moves it back for the third time, he knows that this is it, this time he’ll be throwing it up into the air and it’ll be whirling through the air and then-

his hand swings swiftly to the front and he lets go of the dagger and-

it swirls, just like he’s predicted, the dagger swirls as it moves up-

moves up and further up and he’ll soon need to catch it and-

“Shanks” Buggy’s voice is what startles him, what startles him enough to unconsciously move back one, _single_ , step with both feet and lose sight of the dagger when his head rights itself to look straight ahead instead, and then-

the dagger is swirling and still spiralling in the air, he knows, he can feel it, can see it again as it-

falls

down

right

in

front

of

him

and-

with a _thummmm_ \- kinda noise, it embeds itself neatly into the floor-

right where his left foot has stood nigh moments before.

Sharp silence rings in his ears.

Breathing is all that fills the room for a heartbeat or two.

Shanks’ shoulders are tense and his eyes are wide at the implication that he could have-

_that he could have-_

lost a toe, at least, in the endeavour of “training”.

* * *

He isn’t… breathing fast at all. Nope, for once his breaths come out inexplicably steadily, for all that the redheaded idiot in front of his eyes managed to scare the living daylights out of him with that stunt. Buggy’s just glad to have woken up when he had. A blink of an eye later- he gulps, consciously attempting to un-tense whatever body parts of his haven’t so much as been relaxed for those beats of his heart that it took for him to find his voice again.

Leaning all his weight on his left arm, he sits up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. The boy doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing and only looks down to the floor trying to gather his thoughts. The dagger is visible, from where he's sitting, a steady reminder that Shanks can be downright dumb sometimes.

Buggy shakes his head to rid himself of the terrifying thoughts occupying it against his will.

And then it comes back: his shoulders fall of their own accord when he thinks back to what he grappled with before falling asleep.

Shanks surprises him – and makes him look up to watch the boy – by not addressing the elephant in the room. Instead, he’s bowing down to pick up the dagger, fumbling a bit with it when it stays stuck in the floor at first, and then managing to successfully extract it from there. The redhead straightens and holds it in his hand in contemplation – although contemplating what, exactly, Buggy doesn’t know – and once he speaks, it’s with a measured voice, one that sounds very out of place, very adult-like, on the boy.

( _They’ve always had to make do with what they had, going from one day to the next_ )

( _There haven’t been a lot of adults around the two, to take care of them_ )

( _So they make up their own, play pretend where it’s needed_ )

“You’ve been… crying.” Buggy’s hit with that truth head-on and vaguely thinks that that’s what being steamrolled must be like. To be honest, he should have expected it. Shanks has never been one to beat around the bush, preferring to take things as they come, one at a time and going through them best as he can.

As it is, he says nothing, lowering his gaze to the floor, again.

Judging from the noises that come next, the dagger is put away and Shanks shuffles over to the bed, dipping it when he sits down besides Buggy, his whole being exuding amiable companionship.

Buggy feels small and he hunches in on himself further.

His problems are not half as important, when compared to those of the older boy, are they?

Involuntarily, the blue-haired boy finds that he’s put a bit of his lower lip in-between his teeth and is worriedly, lightly, gnawing on it.

And then, he’s promptly startled out of his funk by an arm that’s being laid across his shoulders, the weight a comfort in and of itself.

“What was it, he said? The, ‘crying’ bit, I mean?” the breaths Buggy can hear being taken in and blown out by the redhead are just as calming a presence as his weight that drapes comfortably across his side.

Buggy-and-Shanks, Shanks-and-Buggy.

It’s always been the two of them, together.

“So, yeah,” the blue-haired boy manages to huff out, quoting his namesake, more air than proper vowels, technically, – but it counts as something, right? – and goes on to say, “I cried.”

Both of them know that wasn’t what Shanks is referring to. However, he lets it stand.

The younger of the two collects enough pieces of himself to conjure up a smile, brittle little thing though it is.

“I’m sorry.” he immediately follows up with, to which Shanks simply throws him a look that doesn’t take much to be understood. The raised eyebrow practically speaks for itself, truth be told.

“Okay, not sorry.” and he is back to gnawing on his lip.

The action is almost expected, when Shanks pulls him in for a hug, laying his face against the older one’s shoulder and both his arms right around Buggy’s back.

It’s-

The sheer _act_ -

What Buggy can feel is this:

soothing warmth surrounding him,

a strong shoulder that’s propping up his head,

the redhead’s _worry_ – for him! – and _hope_ – to be able to help him –,

and another familiar and reassuringly welcome presence that’s almost at the door to their cabin.

* * *

What with them not exchanging any more words and instead directing their respective energy towards their work, they are done sooner than anticipated, apparently, and Taincur volunteers to put away their tools, only giving one last piece of information before heading off to do that.

“Lunch is gonna be served at noon. Roll call is right thereafter.” Buggy quirks an eyebrow at that, but Taincur has already turned around and moved to the broom closet. The ex-captain allows himself to let out a sigh, now that he is alone, and heads back to the cabin the three of them have been given. His first task of the day being done and over with, he’s got free time for approximately an hour before said lunch, it seems.

His list won’t have much of a dent in it by him spending that hour with the boys, but he thinks the crew can deal with that. It’s their first day, after all, and properly settling in is just as important as getting started on one’s duties. No one would mind if Buggy says he wants to get to know the ship’s layout better, should anybody care to ask.

“Roll call, eh?” That’ll prove interesting.

Leaving the deck is almost as if he says goodbye to a long-lost love, when the door closes behind him, taking the sea breeze that he hadn’t even properly noticed away. Lightly irritated, he comes to a stop behind the door. Faintly, he can hear the seagulls calling out to one another behind it, the wooden boards doing nothing to block out the sounds.

His shoulders unwind, a little.

Buggy blinks, mildly bemused.

The swaying of the ship can be felt through the floor and, paradoxically, it steadies him.

He- he hasn’t felt like this, when he’s left Drum and gone to Logue Town. Yet, now…?

Somehow, leaving Logue Town feels like- as if he’s- almost as though they are; starting a new journey, a new voyage – and: _they are_ , don’t get him wrong! – but somehow, it’s… inexplicably, it has that, that tougher, that bigger _feel_ to it.

Like opening a whole new chapter in the book that’s his life.

Not unlike unrolling a treasure map that he’s had in his pocket for however long, and now he can finally unwind it and put weights – _proper weights_ , not some makeshift ones consisting of random gold coins and a goblet filled with faux-wine – on its corners and properly trace a way from one place that’s depicted on it to the next milestone, using proper tools and a feather brush, and sometime soon – sometime soon! – arriving at the X marked brightly in some place that’s not at all obvious to the inexperienced eye.

His lungs expand and he can _breathe_.

This is- this is _his life_.

And he can-

And he’s just really having his realisation in the middle of a hallway on a stranger’s ship with even stranger people on it, almost none of whom he knows by name. Leisurely, he drags a hand over his face and he quickly collects himself, bracing his energies to forcefully push off the floor and head towards their cabin.

That has to have been one of the stupidest moments in his life, deciding to have a breakdown there and then. No, he’ll save it for that evening, when he most probably will fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow and won’t have to have it, at all.

Oh, Buggy knows very well that forbearance is not acquittance and he’ll soon feel the repercussions that he can see looming across the horizon, but devil if he cares for them right then and there.

No, they can wait for the right time or expect not to be addressed at all. Yes, he’s delaying the inevitable, yet again, and no, he won’t stop doing that until it hits him in the face.

Which, it will. Soon. Hissing in a breath, he concedes that to himself, in the privacy of his own mind. But what can he do about it?

Another sigh, and his shoulders drop in resignation. Nothing much, is the answer to that most poignant of questions, lately.

The clown captain deliberately slows his pace and comes to a stop in front of the door behind which he can already sense his young charges.

Time to face the music, eh? He’s absolutely certain that at least Buggy knows about him coming already. The boys’ haki training frankly should be somewhere higher up in his priority list, yet at the moment, he can’t be bothered all that much to actually do something about it.

With his hand on the handle, he opens the door and slides inside, closing it behind him quietly, only for his eyes to alight upon the scene of the two boys hugging one another on the bed Shanks has claimed for himself, earlier.

Huh.

Something happened, maybe?

No time like the present to announce himself, in that case.

“Are you alright?” slips out of his mouth without it having consulted his brain first and he hides the fact that that was not at all intended on his part by smoothing his facial features before any boy can pick up on it.

Fake it till you make it.

Blundering his way through the emotional minefield that is a ten-year-old’s experience of reality has not ever been his forte, yet here he is, trying to navigate exactly that.

The youngest among the three’s face surfaces from the embrace, to regard him evenly, calling him out on his blunder without the boy saying a thing and resting his hands against Shanks’ back. Twin looks of silent judgement – what for, he doesn’t claim to know, – stare at him from that spot and he finds it prudent to venture over to his own bed and sit on it in lieu of responding to them verbally.

Hunching over a bit to have his arms to come to rest on his feet, he is struck by the déja vu in the scene. The ex-captain has to huff, amused. Buggy – the boy – sniffles lightly. The atmosphere feels friendly, open.

“I’m not.” the blue-haired boy says at last, hesitatingly, treading the area the conversation is about to enter to determine whether or not he’s safe to say more on the matter, or not.

Or Buggy’s reading too much into it. Admittedly, that could be the case, too.

“Do you-“ he breaks off before he can finish the thought. Mulling a bit over what could actually be considered helpful in this instance, he then says in a measured tone of voice, “Is there… anything I can do – or say – to help?”

The fact that he would not offer that unless he is prepared to follow up on it is what startles himself most of all the people currently present in the cabin.

And he would. He most definitely, absolutely, would.

There’s little he wouldn’t do, for them.

That’s… startling, in its clarity.

The two of them…

Those kids…

Those…

Those are _his boys_ , now.

Hasn’t he already thought about them as such?

Introduced them, as such, maybe not in so many words, to others?

Truth be told, he _really_ ought to inform them of their status, now that he’ll claim them as his.

A few minutes, aeons, pass them by, wherein nothing grand changes, no big declaration follows the question, no reply, no nothing.

Then, the two boys extricate themselves from each other and, one after the other, make their way over to his bed – he’s already slipping back on the mattress to lean against the wall, himself, a mirror of the position he’s held when he’s been telling them stories the day before – and shuffle up on the bed to sit to both sides of him. Two weights fall against his arms, lounging there – until he rolls his eyes and exaggeratedly moves to lay his arms over the two of them, placing them on their shoulders and draws them close.

Expectedly, as if they’re following a script that only the two of them are privy to, it’s Shanks who gets something out, first. What he says, though, is not at all what Buggy expects him to.

“I tried out a dagger.” Following the boy’s eyes towards the wooden flooring of their cabin, he says nothing, waiting for the boy to go on, “And, uhm. Made a hole?” at that, the redhead turns a puppy-eyed look on him and, no. Buggy is not swayed by that.

An eyebrow raised, he critically musters what parts he can make out of the floor from where he’s sitting and, yes, he notices a tiny gap where he supposes there probably shouldn’t be one, faintly in the shape of a sharp object having fallen and embedded itself there. Deflating, he sighs. The redhead at his left side deflates right along with him, hunching in on himself, most probably beating himself up in his head, too.

Can’t have that.

“Shanks.” The boy’s head swivels to look up at him. “This is a ship.” When that doesn’t clear anything up for the boy, he adds, “A merchant’s ship, to be precise.”

No recognition of what he is getting at follows that, either, and he feels his head move with the fond eyeroll he next directs at the boy, “They gave us this cabin because it’s for workers. See the rundown wood that’s barely holding up our bunks? It’s old and not in the best condition. See how the cabin is smaller than even the outhouse at the farm was? See the door that’s definitely nicer on the outside than from in here?” Point made, he leans back and relaxes again.

To be completely understood, he continues by adding, “I seriously doubt anything you did to the wall or floor has a lot of impact on the whole.” He can barely even make the hole out from where he’s sitting, first of all. “And who’s to tell the captain about it? I won’t.” As a small precaution, Buggy has his haki sweep out and detects no one nearby who could snitch on the boy’s misdeed to the captain. In addition to all of that, he knows that the raised eyebrow he looks at Shanks with at the end of it conveys exactly how much he thinks that the blue-haired boy on his right hand side would tell on Shanks.

It's also not Buggy's ship, to be precise. The Big Top was quite used to stunts like these going wrong and her wooden deck had been exchange more than two dozen times in the time that he'd been captain on that ship. Comes with the territory, when your crew consists of circus-affine people.

_~~Not that he misses them, no, they're probably crying their eyes out, Mohji, Cabbaji and Richie and the others-~~ _

“Still,” the boy literally _cringes_ at the carefully neutral albeit slightly commanding tone of his voice, “you shouldn’t go and try out weapons without someone there who knows how to handle them.” Or somewhere that's not marked as a training area. All kinds of things could go wrong there- And now it’s Buggy who’s the one beating themselves up within the safe confines of their head. Boys + weapons. He really ought to have smelled this one coming from a mile away and against the wind to boot.

His lightly reproachful look is met with a nod, minuscule though it is, and he’s reassured, saying, “Let me know when you want to try them out. If you want to learn something, I may be able to give you some tips on how to move, what stance would work and so on…”

“You know how to- use… _work with_ knives?” the younger Buggy’s question has him turn his attention on the boy to his right. Buggy nods, regarding him evenly.

“Before I” _arrived at? ~~Was coerced into working at~~_ “started” _good save_ , “at Ludy’s farm, I was a juggler.”

Unnoticed, he swallows down the snort that threatens to escape him at the rephrasing. Keeping a straight face when being looked up to with _those eyes_ is… difficult, to say the least.

This is the real life. Lesson one: Buggy’s a liar, first of all. And a coward, but they know that already.

There’s a fine line between juggler and pirate and Buggy’s swaggering along it with a captain’s hat on.

“A juggler?” his younger self’s eyes positively sparkle and he’s almost vibrating in place, and Buggy has to move his head to watch what Shanks’ reaction is, a little overwhelmed by the enthusiasm the blue-haired boy exudes.

When he sees the ( _well-earned, achingly familiar_ ) skepticism thrown at him from that side, he decides that enthusiasm is most decidedly the lesser of the two evils and goes back to give Buggy the younger all of his attention, again. _His Shanks is not here, ~~his Shanks is **not dea-**~~_

Sparkles.

Veritable sparkles greet him.

They’re set in wide, blue eyes with a striped hat on top.

In utter resignation to his fate, he closes his eyes and lets out a heartfelt sigh.

It’s fond at the edges and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Frankly, he’s already expected some kind of trouble to be coming out of the two boys being left to their own devices sometime during their journey, he just didn’t expect it so soon.

Travelling with a pirate crew hasn’t ever been this predictable, has it? Then again, if anything, the boys are just predictable to _some_ degree – and that’s only for him, because he knows them, because he _was one of them_ , once upon a time.

It’s been a few… decades, since.

“Yeah, I was a juggler.” He affirms to the glowing look and broadening grin on Buggy’s face.

“That’s awesome!” bursts out of the boy, apparently without his brain’s consent, considering he looks like he’d like to take it back immediately upon having it out there.

Isn’t it ironic, that his knowledge about his younger self admiring performers of all kinds is leading him to lie to him? Well, technically, he isn’t exactly lying, is he? Being a juggler and circus performer _is_ one of his professions. Just, it’s not altogether the most… important one, or the most acknowledged one.

Marines usually don’t care if you’re a performer while they’re trying to capture you.

Well, no use lingering on things one can’t change.

With gusto, he delves into what his life has been like as a juggler of the highest rating – for, only the best can attain the status of a captain, that’s for sure – and pays no heed to the glowering redhead at his other side.

One thing is all that counts right now – and the Shanks of this time has yet to figure it out, has he? – and that is that his scheme pays off, as it always does.

Mind successfully taken off of whatever heavy, difficult thing that the boy has been stewing over for however long he’s spent alone in this cabin, all by himself, alone with his thoughts and no one to keep him company, the blue-haired boy is eating up his recounts of mishaps and successes alike with gusto.

Buggy knows himself. And he knows that his mind can jump to all sorts of conclusions, and fast, if left to do so.

The best remedy against that that he found so far? Talking. Talking about it, talking as a distraction, listening to talking and talking about whatever comes to mind.

_~~Oh heavens, he needs to find the three of them some sort of help, **and fast**~~ _

The redhead is silent, too, and only gives him calculating glances every now and then when he deigns to check in on him.

The hour until lunchtime is spent with the three of them absorbed in retellings of past blunders and Buggy thinks he’s doing _some things_ right, at last.

* * *

Lunch comes and passes them by with little fanfare. The galley’s not the most spectacular place to be at in most ships and their growling stomachs sufficiently distract them from getting better looks at their temporary crewmates at first.

The vice-captain comes in briefly to announce the roll call taking place directly thereafter, and that’s that. They’re not seated at a table with other people and so are saved from having to make small talk on their first day, although Buggy notices the looks thrown their way, probably categorising them and putting them into neat little drawers in the onlookers’ heads already.

A one-sided shrug, and the matter has left his mind.

Can’t please everyone aboard the ship.

They’re not here for that.

Then, “Buggy!”

Ah. His eyes open again, startled, and he’s met with the sight of his earlier co-worker. Tain- something, wasn’t it? The grimace that accompanies him realising he can’t remember the name is short and remains largely unnoticed, judging by the smile on the other man’s face.

With nary a pause in his movements, the lean man slides into the remaining free seat on Buggy’s left hand side, putting his own tray on the table at the same time.

The boys slow in their eating across from the two, wary of the newcomer.

“So, how do you like it aboard the Antalope?” the brunet asks amiably, opening the conversation with an innocent topic.

Buggy shifts to face his plate and breaks a piece off his bread, taking his time to respond to the question. “It’s okay.” As far as merchants’ ships go, the Antalope truly doesn’t stick out. The ship’s sturdy, Buggy has to give its shipwright that, at least, and it’ll certainly make it across the East Blue and to the entrance of the Grand Line in one piece, as far as he can tell. Yet it wouldn’t be the ex-captain’s first choice of ship, if he had to give his opinion.

The Big Top is better than this one.

Buggy pauses in his thoughts, distracted.

It would be. Will be?

Time travel, _ugh_.

“The crew’s nice, I can tell you this much – Den over there you know already, I’ve heard? Well, the one besides him isn’t too bad either. His name’s-“ the tirade goes right over Buggy’s head, to be honest. They’ll hear the names and see the faces again at the roll call anyways, won’t they? What’s the use in hearing the names now, when he can lean back and try to remember them when they’ll be repeated properly later?

And then Taincur notices the small audience of two that have been regarding him with hawk-like eyes throughout the whole spiel.

“Oh! Hi, you two! I’m Taincur, his crewmate! And you are…?”

Buggy breaks off another piece from his bread and dunks it into the remaining sauce on his plate, almost disinterestedly handing out the introductions. “The one right across from you is Shanks and that there” he nods lightly in the blue-haired boy’s direction, “is Buggy.”

Silence.

A moment of blessed silence answers his announcement, before Taincur gathers himself and says, “Well. Nice to meetcha! Anyways, see you at the roll call, right? Ta~!” and leaves.

Coward.

Someone like that wouldn’t have made it far on his crew, he knows. With an eyeroll, Buggy finishes his bread and stands up, surprising his charges when he says, “No time like the present. If you’re done, we’re supposed to carry empty trays over to that tray trolley. Come on.”

Leisurely, making sure to look as though nothing could faze him, he starts heading there, and then, followed by his two young ducklings, makes his way up onto deck, where the roll call is supposed to take place.

Heavens help him if they always follow him like that, he’s _so_ not made to have shadows at his back, no matter how young they might be.

* * *

Den is standing slightly to the right of him, with Taincur securing himself a place in-between the two, and Buggy has managed to ascertain two places to his right where the boys are placed.

One by one, the vice-captain directs people to stand in rows, patiently shouting orders for someone to be quiet and then for others to “Move over there, NOW!”

And then, roll call starts. The procedure is boring and one Buggy hasn’t experienced again after he’s had to do that inside job at a marine point by himself. It goes like this: a name is shouted out, and then the person called would respond. Yadda yadda yadda, bla-bla-bla.

Suuuuuuuper important, he’s sure.

Then, Den’s name is called.

Next is Taincur’s.

And then,

* * *

“Buggy!”

“Present.” the blue-haired, red-nosed man, a new help-for-hire aboard the Antalope, answers in a bored monotone.

The vice-captain nods shortly, and blinks, then flounders for a second, ostensibly not finding what he’s searching for on the list he’s carrying, and says, “I’m sorry, we didn’t catch your names.” The boys he's addressing have been attentively watching the proceedings and stayed quiet, so far.

The blue-haired man that’s standing besides them, however, answers in the boys’ stead, “This is Buggy and that is Shanks.” helpfully pointing towards each of them with his left hand as he names them.

The vice-captain and the captain blink in unison, briefly confused.

A beat later, the vice-captain tries to clarify, turning to the man, “Your name is…”

“Buggy.” The reply comes readily.

The vice captain goes on, saying, “And this is…?”

“Buggy.” The blue-haired man says, matter-of-fact and with a voice as dry as a desert.

“You’re not- That’s not- You can’t _both_ -?” Taincur stumbles over his question in the background, but Buggy’s gaze doesn’t waver and his stare-off with the captain makes said captain raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Buggy junior?” he queries, half-serious, half in askance.

“Buggy.” The man doesn’t back down and instead raises an eyebrow in open challenge. Then, he opens his mouth and states, “It doesn’t make that big of a difference. The only Buggy you’ll be calling for will be me, as I’m the one working for you. Buggy” and he nods towards the blue-haired boy that’s staring at his older namesake with wide eyes and an open mouth in clear surprise, “was taken on as a guest, as I specified when I applied. They’re both with me.”

* * *

“Buggy.” No, he won’t back down from this. No one has been able to out-stubborn the clown captain until now and he’d sooner eat his shoes than allow this no-name captain be the first to succeed at that. Instead, he raises a delicate eyebrow in challenge, stating, “It doesn’t make that big of a difference. The only Buggy you’ll be calling for will be me, as I’m the one working for you." New information for his boys, most probably, since he forgot to tell them that, but there they go, learning about it. "Buggy” and he makes sure to indicate his younger self with his head, “was taken on as a guest, as I specified when I applied. They’re both” _my boys_ “with me.”

The vice-captain turns to look at the captain and the two briefly confer with their eyes, then the captain nods from his position squarely in front of the whole crew, and the vice-captain moves forward.

Tension that he has not felt build up in his shoulders dissipates under the tacit OK they’ve received. This is once more an affirmation of both his position aboard the ship as well as the status of the two boys who are with him. No one will dispute that, now that the captain has given this blatant OK in front of the whole crew.

Good.

That’s one piece of security taken care of.

The vice-captain moves through the rows – there’s three rows of people loosely standing one besides the other working on this ship, as is to be expected of a merchant’s vessel with this size. Coming to the end of the congregation, the man has to ask for the names of the last two people, ostensibly not finding them on his list, as well.

Even though he’s turned out most of the conversation, his ears decide this moment to listen to it properly once more and what he hears makes him freeze up involuntarily.

“My name’s Undro. And this is Makur. He’s a Devil Fruit User.”

Ah, right. He knew he’s forgotten about _something_.

The two sharks at his right hone in on him at his reaction.

He can already feel their questions circling above their heads.

Forcibly relaxing his shoulders, neck and arms, he spreads his haki.

Oh great. The two mini-piranhas aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed.

Just one more day in his life, eh? But Buggy won’t mention it until they do.

Same goes for that other nosy person, curious as they are, according to his haki.

The ex-clown captain doesn’t have to invite _everyone_ to know his secrets, does he?

Nah, they can work for them, just like he has had to work for every single treasure so far.

_~~“What doesn’t kill you-“~~ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooooo... hope you enjoyed this brief reprieve, dear readers~ ^_^  
> Some quiet, some calm, some peace for our three - before the angst comes back to haunt them *muahahaaaa* *coughs* uhum, well. On with the program, eh? XD
> 
> "The Antalope", the ship’s name, was gifted to me by [ScarletSorceress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletSorceress/pseuds/ScarletSorceress), many thanks to them for that fabulous name!!! :D
> 
> "in one piece" heh... XD
> 
> Also, I’m running out of synonyms to call our respective Buggys, and my story has apparently picked up on that. XD Can’t say I disapprove, really.
> 
> Also also: I am CELEBRATING 100 subscribers to this story O_O 100 people who are willing to receive an email whenever I post a new chapter is... around 100 people more than I hoped for, to be honest ^_^' Thank you very much for the continuous support, folks!!! And thank you very much for reading~!
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please don't hesitate to leave me a comment below, dear readers - I adore those and love engaging with my readers! ;)


	12. Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What… is he?
> 
> Buggy-the-clown has… been reduced to, has been downscaled to… this?
> 
> A Devil Fruit User, a babysitter – but one with no clear goal, aside from that.
> 
> An adventurer, maybe.
> 
> Treasure-seeker, yes.
> 
> What is he to do with himself, other than that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so. This is the FIRST DRAFT of this chapter, no re-reads, no nothing, cause I _wanted it out_ \- it's the 200th day after I first put online the first chapter of THIS FIC and I want to _**celebrate**_.  
> That's it, that's all there is to it. ;) It'll definitely get edited - sometime later, though.
> 
> Can I refrain from rewarming old content/conversations for the sake of treating them from multiple POVs?  
> Answer: No, I cannot.
> 
> What'll await you in this chapter, you ask? Well, I've prepared for your pleasure: a game, few plot crumbs, a bit of an (ongoing) identity crisis, a realization, _FeelsTM_ and a heart-to-heart. :D
> 
> So, dearest readers, grab yourself a beverage of your choice, air out the room before you sit down into your most comfortable seating of choice, grab some cookies or chocolate or what-have-yous and set yourself some time apart from reality for _the sheer pleasure of reading_ ~
> 
> Enjoy!

_Hope is the thing with feathers_

_That perches in the soul_

_And sings the tune without the words_

_And never stops at all._

~Emily Dickinson, " 'Hope' is the thing with feathers - (314)" in _The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson_

* * *

“Buggy!” it goes.

“Present.” Is the answer.

To say that Buggy’s well familiar with the spiel would be an understatement. And now it’ll be his turn. The blue-haired boy waits for the vice-captain to fumble for a bit, to shout out his name next and is disappointed when that doesn’t happen. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry, we didn’t catch your names.”

They… didn’t? The boy blinks, befuddled for but a moment. And then, the unthinkable happens, when instead of the two boys, it’s Buggy-the-man who answers “This is Buggy and that is Shanks.” with their proper names, of all things, helpfully pointing towards each of them with his left hand as he names them.

When the vice-captain and the captain blink in unison, they are not the only ones utterly confused.

Had he just really, truly-

The blue-haired man had-

Of all things, he’d called him-

The vice-captain repeats, facing the man, that utterly inexplicably confounding adult currently in charge of the two of them, “Your name is…”

“Buggy.”

“And this is…?” the man is asked next and he answers it with a “Buggy.” that’s said as matter-of-fact as it is strange, coming from that man’s lips.

The sky is blue, a ship floats on water and Buggy’ name is Buggy. Both Buggys’ names are Buggy. That’s strange, when a day ago, the older man insisted on calling him all sorts of names, in lieu of his given one. The boy frowns in barely-hidden consternation. What changed, to make him say that, now?

He’s firmly on the new co-worker’s side, when he’s spurting out words, tumbling over them in his confusion, “You’re not- That’s not- You can’t _both_ -?”

The blue-haired man’s gaze doesn’t waver and he stares at the captain and the vice-captain in challenge. It makes the boy’s stomach roil unpleasantly, having the man stand up for him being addressed properly _with his whole name_ , like that.

“Buggy junior?” is the next question which is as disappointing as it is anticipated as a logical conclusion to come to. The boy’s shoulders fall nigh imperceptibly.

“Buggy.” The challenge is repeated, the steadfast stare-off still ongoing despite the contrast of the ridiculousness of the stubbornness displayed.

It’s… just a name, isn’t it?

Heart-warming as it is, it’s just, a name.

His name, for all that the older Buggy hasn’t used it yet.

The boy’s eyes are glassy when the older man goes on to justify his defence of the name, “It doesn’t make that big of a difference. The only Buggy you’ll be calling for will be me, as I’m the one working for you. Buggy” when the man nods in his direction, he’s startled into wide-eyed surprise, “was taken on as a guest, as I specified when I applied. They’re both with me.”

Both, he said.

And he’s just.

 _Stood up_.

For Buggy?

The boy is flabbergasted.

He’s floundering along, as the introductions go on.

Oh, and then the vice-captain is back to moving through the rows in a well-rehearsed manner, probably having done this a million times already.

It’s only once he’s coming to the end that Buggy tunes back into what he’s saying again. Could be important information that the man’s imparting to them when he’s finally done with checking them off on his list.

Only, it’s something different that the blue-haired boy catches when they speak and which makes him focus all of his sharp-eyed attention on the man that’s taking care of them for now.

“My name’s Undro. And this is Makur. He’s a Devil Fruit User.”

Buggy – the man – has frozen up again, at that.

Just like he did back at the shop.

It’s like he’s hiding something.

Or has he made bad experiences with Devil Fruit Users? But why would he have frozen up back at the arms dealer, if so? The boy back then ranted about them, after all. Wouldn’t he be of the same opinion, in that case?

Too many questions.

And not nearly as many answers to be found anywhere.

Seriously, they’ll need to corner the older man again, won’t they? Unless they do that, he’ll try to run and avoid talking about the matter altogether. Why is he this difficult? And on purpose, too!

Buggy’s utterly done with adults, sometimes.

And with this particular man, especially.

When the introductions are done and over with, the people scatter, sailors going this way and that in order to reach their stations.

“You two won’t be asked to work aboard this ship.” The blue-haired man informs them after turning towards them briefly. He makes no secret out of himself being the only one who’s offered to work for the privilege of being granted a place and board on this ship in the first place.

“So what, we’re free to do whatever we want?” Shanks challenges him, disbelievingly. To be fair, for Buggy-the-boy, it’s quite the novelty, not being asked, or even, _demanded_ , to work in exchange for food and a roof over their heads.

That’s… unexpected. Yet, clearly, it was the blue-haired man’s intention all along.

Sacrificing himself for them, the boy wonders what he’ll ask of them, in exchange for that.

No one does anything for free, for them, ever.

Not in their dreams, and certainly not in reality, not when people could do something self-serving instead.

So it serves Buggy-the-man somehow, does it, not to have them put to work?

What’ll he get out of it, Buggy wonders.

It’s a mystery.

“Exactly.” the man affirms. He goes on saying, “There’s a game I brought in my sack. You can spend the time I’m away for work playing with one another or practicing some writing, maybe? Your call. Don’t get into trouble and leave the knives be until I’m back again, understood?”

They look at each other, then back at the man and nod their assent.

“Good. I’ll be off now. See you two at dinner!” the blue-haired man follows his co-worker to some unknown corner of the ship and leaves them be, expecting them to know their way back to the cabin by themselves.

To be fair, the ship’s not all that big, in the first place.

Still.

A game?

He brought a game?

And for them to play, too.

Has he anticipated their boredom?

Are they this predictable in their actions?

For about a minute, the two of them just stand there.

Out in the open, with seagulls crying overhead and the blue, blue sky staring down at them enticingly.

They have free time to spend or waste as they like, now.

Buggy can’t get it into his head.

“Well.” Shanks huffs out.

“Best to get going.”

They look at each other.

As one, they head into the direction of their cabin. There’s a game waiting for them.

* * *

Buggy doesn’t quite know what to expect of the two of them after he made them aware of the game’s existence – he half-hopes, half-dreads them following him to his next working station and is relieved to find that not be the case, five minutes into his next task.

The random scattering of people as they amble towards their next tasks was anticipated, much as he doesn’t quite know why he keeps being paired with Taincur, of all people.

“Funny, isn’t it? A Devil Fruit User, in our midst!” his co-worker opens the next conversation with. Buggy is exasperated and intrigued both, although this time he enters it.

“What do you think his fruit is?” he idly asks, not expecting the reply that comes.

“Oh, he ate the Ushi Ushi no Mi: Model Bison.” Taincur explains and Buggy freezes up, wide-eyed, once more in utter shock.

What the- What?

Isn’t that- wasn’t that-

Dalton’s fruit?

The boy from-

From Drum?

That’s not at all what he expected.

He’s completely confounded at this latest turn of events.

“So, yanno, we’ll have to fish him out, should he ever fall in, eh? What a pain.” His crewmate informs him, as though simply discussing the weather, pulling him out of his flabbergasted state.

Then he halts in his movements, shifts to fully turn his body to properly face Buggy and oh, it’s a heart-to-heart kind of moment, isn’t it? No matter how much Buggy would like to roll his eyes at the dramatic manner of his co-worker, he faces the other, too, instead and listens carefully to what Taincur has to say to him.

“Your boy, the blue-haired one.” The man starts with, shaking his head with closed eyes, and no, that’s not a good start at all – Buggy’s hackles are rising already with his focus being on the boy, his eyes narrowing sharply in response to the unknown threat. “He really got the same name as you?” he ends up asking.

Buggy frowns. “So he does. What’s it to you?”

Taincur raises both his hands in a disarming gesture, sensing the mood. “Nothing, nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just, well. Kinda confusing, eh?”

And that’s _exactly_ the reason why Buggy keeps giving the boy nicknames. When they’re with friends.

Which, no, they’re not, currently. No need to make things easier for veritable strangers, is there? Not if they don’t know the bulk of them. Den might get away with calling the boy names, but that’s only because he practically is an extension of Ludy’s family, what with being Eddie’s friend.

Buggy’s paranoid – it’s in his nature.

The clown captain doesn’t trust easily.

Better to have the staff get used to that.

After all, he’s got good reasons for adopting that trait.

The ex-captain is also a pirate, still, even after everything that happened.

Pirates are selfish – and they have every right to be, particularly when it comes to their treasure.

“Not for me, no.” he barely remembers to answer the man’s question, deciding to go back to sweeping the floors and closing the conversation.

* * *

They meet up – as promised – for dinner, sitting down across from each other, once more.

The boys look... rested, which is a first under the circumstances, and a welcome impression he gets from them. The mood at the table is more carefree than it’s been earlier and Buggy wonders if they took him up on his offer.

If so, well, he’d be the last one to complain about the two boys finally catching a break, for once.

( _There’s been way too few of those to go around, he knows_ _from first-hand experience_ )

The looks they fix him with are sharp, still. For all intents and purposes, neither has forgotten about his reaction to the mention of a Devil Fruit User – and he’d wager, for neither of the two times that has happened so far.

Hiding the grimace that he can feel threatening to burst forth, he bites into his food, instead, swallowing down any words that would come forth at the reminder.

Oh, he’s _so_ not looking forward to the confrontation – nor its subsequent fallout.

The food is tasteless on his tongue. Idly, he wonders if the cook’s in love – isn’t there a saying that if a cook has a sweetheart somewhere, they’d misuse the salt, putting in either too little or too much? Not his favourite thing to happen, but what can you do?

Glancing over, the blue-haired man notices Buggy openly grimacing at the taste and has to hold back an involuntary snort at that. No, definitely not to his taste, that meal.

Shanks – in typical D fashion ( _and Buggy won’t accept anyone saying he’s not a D or at least an honorary one, with all the shit he keeps pulling on a daily basis!_ ) – he devours the food with more gusto and less manners than the people around him exhibit.

The man sighs. Yet another thing to think about, teaching them manners, eh?

As pirates, that wouldn’t make much of a difference, but is he even still a pirate, now?

Huh, good question. What is he? Leaning back in his seat to regard the ceiling in contemplation after having finished as much of his meal as he can stomach, he wonders about what he ought to be referring to his own person as, these days.

The boys’ caretaker, obviously, that’s on the top of the list.

Ludy’s ex-employee.

A… dare he say it? world citizen.

Ah, that has him grimace. So, no, that’s out of the picture.

He’s a sailor, naturally.

A pirate, not so much – or is he?

Frowning so does not suit him, yet he’s got to.

What… is he?

Buggy-the-clown has… been reduced to, has been downscaled to… this?

A Devil Fruit User, a babysitter – but one with no clear goal, aside from that.

An adventurer, maybe.

Treasure-seeker, yes.

What is he to do with himself, other than that?

It seems… not enough, not quite nearly enough, to make up for what he was, what he has been before-

before the marines stripped him bare-

stripped him of his rank and position-

stripped him of his free will-

A hand is laid on his arm hesitantly, shyly, and his head turns around to the person to his right.

Two beady eyes stare back at him worriedly, with the teeth gnawing on the boy’s bottom lip.

Right, good, the meal is over, then?

Mentally switching tracks, the man reconsiders and faces back to the table once more-

only to find out that his tray has been taken to the trash and his place has been wiped clear of dirt already.

… who’s the caretaker, here, again?

Glassy-eyed, he gets up and throws an encouraging look at his two charges that barely passes as grateful.

The boys are staring at him with that look in their eyes – the one that they had when he’d been standing on the marketplace of Logue Town and they’d picked him up, dragging him out of funk that he’s gotten himself into forcefully. Back then, it had been the same, with the two boys, the younger ones, the ones he ought to be the one taking care of, the ones in his care, it still is not the other way around, goddammit!, worried about him, of all things that they could spend their time doing.

What a waste of time he proves to be, eh?

Can’t even properly take care of his own health.

How is he to ever manage the feat of being in charge of two boys’ health, if he can’t even do that much?

Hunching his shoulder slightly, he drags his feet as he shuffles after the two boys towards the cabin they’re sharing. That night is an off-night for him, no work to do for once, although the next few will prove gruelling and a strain on his body, he can already see that coming down on him at the end of the week.

The two backs ahead of him are straight, carefree and so undeniably young.

Neither boy ought to worry about a man three times their age.

Shaking his head, he tries to get rid of the thoughts.

Irritated at himself, he purses his lips.

Soon, they’ll find out how much of a bother he is.

Soon, they’ll figure out just how much trouble he is.

Sometime soon, they’ll decide for themselves if he is-

If he is worth the pain, the trouble, the worry, once he falls overboard, once he makes a mistake (and oh, he’ll make plenty of those, he’s certain of that, that’s always been true for him, after all, there’s no changing the fact that Buggy the pirate can’t ever do stuff the right way for long-), or once he hurts one of them by accident-

_cause that’ll only happen by accident for him, oh, he knows that much by now-_

and then they’ll want to get rid of him, they’ll want him gone, out of their lives for good and for him to never, ever come back.

( _He won’t imitate his old captain, no, never in his dreams_ )

( _But he can’t help but be Buggy-the-clown, be himself_ )

( _Buggy the pirate, the loser, the failure of a human-_ )

And he wonders, what then?

If they see all that, what then?

What’ll he do? What’ll become of him?

( _ ~~He dreads the day~~_ )

* * *

The two boys sit down on their shared bed, determined to get the truth, this time for sure.

Just like the last time they’ve done that, there’s a bit of a silence reigning supreme, at first.

Their eyes meet his – and the man’s sat down across from them, on his own bed, again.

Both sides wager the odds of getting the answers they search for, bet on the side they think might win and then-

formulate the questions, think on the phrasing, so as not to offend, but still get to the point of what they want to find out, and then-

they plunge into the deep and go ahead to ask, “You’ve… experience? With Devil Fruits.”

None of the people in the room is surprised that it’s Shanks who dares ask the clown.

The look they get in return is concerning. With trepidation, Buggy and Shanks glance at each other, quickly, furtively, before both their minds work as one and their feet make their bodies slide off the bed, rise up and cross the distance they’ve put between them and Buggy-the-man and oh, they now realise that they did that and wonder why they did that – but only for a moment, a second, all it takes to cross the floorboards to rush to the other bed, to climb up on it and sit down to Buggy’s sides, wedging the man in-between the two boys’ bodies with no escape and no fight-or-flight instincts kicking in and, as one, put both their arms around the other to-

to comfort the man, to provide him with even so much as a smidgen of the security and safety he’s provided them with up until now and-

it’s for their own sakes, too, it’s selfishness come into being, there’s no such thing as unselfish thoughts in there, when they hug the living daylights-

out of the man that’s sworn, not in so many words but in actions alone, to protect them.

Squished between the two, the bigger, longer arms – and Buggy’s decidedly not jealous of how the man can simply surround them both this easily, he’s _not_ – encompass the two’s shoulders and squish them against him in turn.

It’s… uncomfortable, after a while.

Shanks solves the situation by chuckling, once more, when he notices the discomfort and grimace on his companion’s face.

Buggy can’t help himself – he’s not made to hide his thoughts.

All the world’s an open book – and he’s the reader.

That’s not always the most comfortable position to be in, he has to admit.

The atmosphere lightens up, some of the stress that the two of them can see littering the older man’s shoulders dissipating in the hug’s wake.

It’s a bit of a time, until the blue-haired man opens his mouth to answer them, but answer them, he does.

“I…” he sighs. The sigh’s a heartfelt one, a deep one, coming from the belly. Both Buggy and Shanks know the type. They brighten up, though, at recognising it as not the same one he’s let out once, before, the last time that they’ve confronted him. That one’s gone down in their books as one hopefully never to be heard of again, never to be repeated again, not anywhere in the future at all.

The two boys are surprisingly patient, when they know they will be answered, and the man has yet to disappoint them in that.

“… where to start?” the question’s a rhetoric one, clearly not to be answered by anyone, and they let it sit there, in the air between them, the start of a story, an explanation they can barely await the end of, and the man ventures on to add, “I, you know, I-“ he halts, starts again and halts, once more, clearly unsure, uncertain for what feels to them like the first time, ever, in all their acquaintance, that he does so.

The man has seemed unflappable, up to this moment, a rock in the breeze, a ship sturdy enough to face the wildest waters and the most upsetting storms.

And yet, and yet.

It’s… humbling, that he can be- that he _is_ unsure, too. Just as much as it’s made a mark on them that he’s _cried_ , that one time, and then openly admitted to the fact to their faces, it’s something they don’t quite know how to deal with.

Slowly, it’s slotting into place in their worldview, expanding their horizon and adding to their experiences all at once.

So, he’s not the grand, dramatic human being that’s such a badass all the time, is he?

It fits impeccably, in their opinion.

They relax, in his presence, relax even further at this truth they’re being presented with.

It’s soothing, they feel warm.

There’s the feeling of someone trying to pull teeth, and the man admits, worriedly glancing at both of them, first, before doing so, “I’m- a Devil Fruit User, myself.”

That’s… entirely unexpected, yet-

it’s alright, they find.

So, he’s a Devil Fruit User, so what?

Both Buggy and Shanks at once, with one look into each other’s eyes, resolve to save the man, should he ever manage to fall into the sea.

If that’s the only bad thing- if that’s his only weakness-

then Buggy and Shanks will do their best to keep any enemies in the dark about it.

The only question that’s left, for now, however… “What Devil Fruit did you eat?” Shanks inquires curiously and is, in turn, baffled by the man’s wide-eyed staring that he gets in return.

He blinks, bemused.

Did he say something wrong?

Is there something on his face?

Confused, he rubs his nose with one finger, trying to figure out what it is that’s thrown the man this much.

The other boy, meanwhile is slightly, just slightly, mind, exhausted that his friend hasn’t realised that the reaction’s-

Buggy-the-man’s reaction is most likely-

because they didn’t reject him, for that, isn’t it?

Buggy knows rejection inside and out, and he knows the feeling that’s left over when it’s not being done to oneself by heart.

That’s- a relief, a security, something stabilising – and the red-nosed man’s exuding exactly what he did, when Shanks accepted him as his friend.

He knows this feeling and it’s warm. It’s nice.

Their Buggy, the man, has earned every single bit of it, for what he’s done for them already.

That man has earned all of their acceptance, and more besides.

All considered, however, they’re just two boys.

Two ten-year-olds, fresh to the world.

They can only give so much.

And hope it’s enough.

( _It seems to be_ )

Some mischievousness enters the man’s facial expression and they immediately grow wary in the face of it.

What’s he got planned, now?

To both of them, it’s clear that he’s scheming something.

Potentially to do with the Devil Fruit and their question, is it?

* * *

The two have no idea how close to the truth they are, in their wondering about the idea that’s entered his head.

“Take a wild guess.” Buggy prompts them, the very next minute coming up with conditions that he doesn’t hesitate to lay down for them, “You’ve got four weeks – a month – to guess my Devil Fruit’s power. I won’t tell you if you’re wrong or right, but at the end of that month, I’ll reveal it to you.”

That’s… a game, he’s proposing. It’s something to keep them occupied, and hopefully, out of trouble, as well, while they’re not busy working on the ship and have free time to spare.

Oh, he’s already looking forward to the most outlandish theories they would most probably come up with on their own and a smirk steals across his face at the anticipation of what they’ll throw at his head in the upcoming days and weeks.

It’ll be nothing short of entertaining, he’s sure.

( _And once that month’s passed, he’s hopefully worked up the courage to tell them about it_ )

( _And tell them that he’s Buggy, literally, not just some doppelgänger but the real thing_ )

( _And tell them that he’s a real-life pirate, a clown pirate, a pirate_ captain _, to boot_ )

( _ ~~And tell them that, technically, he was to be executed for it, in the distant future~~_ )

( _ ~~And tell them that they won’t have to worry about that, it’s far into the future~~_ )

( _ ~~And tell them that he’s from said far, distant future, too, while he’s at it~~_ )

( _Oh, he has no hopes they won’t run and leave him behind at that)_

_(Leave him behind, by himself, alone ~~and lonely and **tired**~~ )_

_(Better get rid of him as soon as they can_ )

* * *

There are the tears, again. Those accursed things are running down, travelling down the lonesome man’s cheeks like they’ve done before and Shanks is breathing hard in tandem with him, feels his own eyes tear up and it’s truly, absolutely heart-breaking how out of his depth the boy feels and he has not even the slightest idea what could have tipped him over the edge this time, what could have been the thing that started the tearworks, what could have broken the man’s composure this much to-

 _leave scars_ , almost, and the tears feel similar, to the boy, for all that they aren’t permanent in any state or form.

The salty water travels down slowly, one, single tear carving a track alongside the man’s skin.

The redhead feels his chest heave, his heart cave in with the pain he’s mirroring but which he doesn’t know what to do with, how to counteract, how to dissipate it, on his own.

Seeking aid, he turns his head to look at his agemate for help.

They’re already hugging him, after all, aren’t they?

Is there anything else to do but to squish him between them?

Can they do more, say more, _say anything at all_ to improve the situation?

If only they knew how to help him- how to make it better, how to chase away the demons that haunt him and _keep haunting him_ despite their best efforts and he’s not supposed to feel this bad all of the time, he’s supposed to feel good too, sometimes and have good things happen to him, too and now there’s all of their situation to consider, his illness that’s hanging over them like a dark storm cloud, the work the man’s taken on to quite literally keep them above water, their finances they ought to keep track of and the morose feelings he still appears to cling onto somehow-

And if the blue-haired man thinks the boys haven’t noticed by now how he’s been dragging a metaphorical baggage behind himself, he’s got another thing coming.

They curl into one another, for lack of a better idea on what to do to make things better.

His movements are limited due to the crowding and he clings to them, instead.

It’s a welcome action, one that Shanks approves of just as much as Buggy does.

As long as he clings to them, he can’t cling to the bad thoughts, the bad feelings and the bad memories he tries to cling to-

As long as he clings to them, his tears can disappear into their clothes, in lieu of his, and he can sob openly-

whatever he wants to sob about.

So what if he cries? Men cry too, Shanks knows – or, at least, he does, now.

And, well, if their caretaker cries, then they’ll just have to make sure to be strong enough to prop him up, this time around.

The least they can do, really, after everything he’s done for them and helped them with and guided them to, thus far.

The night is long and their evening lasts yet longer, with Buggy crying and sobbing on the two of them.

It takes them a while to finally go to sleep, in a pile, on top of each other, as per their latest habit.

* * *

Three days pass them by in a blur. Four. Then five. Sooner than they realise, a week passes them by, and Reverse Mountain is close by, if one trusts the maps.

One never trusts the maps, this close to the Grand Line.

Mapmakers tend to exaggerate, or, what’s worse, underestimate the distances between stuff, here.

Landmarks are drawn bigger or smaller on a map than how they appear in real life.

It’s dangerous, to say the least, and Buggy’s had more than one close call, venturing towards the Grand Line in all his years as a pirate captain.

Then again, this is a merchant’s ship, isn’t it? These people ought to come prepared.

Rare as it is, he puts his trust in them, for now.

Should they get into trouble, he knows what’s awaiting them on the other side of the mountain and knows that – indifferent as the doctor appears to some, he’ll help them, if they ask.

He’s never yet sent away random people that have come up to him and asked for his help.

( _The old man’s only one of the ones he’d rather go out of his way to avoid, instead_ )

( _Buggy hasn’t seen the man in years, he’s not out to break that record now_ )

( _His old crew hasn’t cared about him, why should he do that for them?_ )

And it’s another pang to his stomach, pain that spreads from his middle, an old ache that’s already calcified into something solid and made its home, there.

It’ll never go away, he’s incredibly aware of that.

( _Does he even want for it to?_ )

( _Is he prepared for the mental fallout from that?_ )

( _Does he want the Rogers to acknowledge him, take him back as one of theirs?_ )

( _ ~~Or is he prepared to wallow, by himself and in peace, in the grief that their rejection’s brought him thus far?~~_ )

Buggy-

needs help.

Badly.

( _ ~~Yet another thing on the long, long list he needs to keep track of, these days~~_ )

But first of all, it’s Shanks that needs _his_ help, for now.

He hasn’t been blind to the changes that have wracked the boy’s body lately.

The redhead has been scratching at his arm more often, these past few days and there’s a light cough making its way into his lungs, too.

Ludy’s written down a list of symptoms to watch out for and he’s kept it carefully on his person, all the while keeping an eye out for whenever one of the worse ones seems to start up.

The cough is one of the ones that ought to have started in a latter phase of the Sea Sickness – it’s too early to torment the boy this much already, but there it is, doing that already.

Buggy knows they’ll only get worse, from there.

With each passing day, he’s watching out for more to come, vigilantly keeping an eye on the boy in case there’s something else that’s torturing him, on top of the other things he’s got to deal with.

It isn’t easy, and more than once, the man has seen his younger doppelgänger worriedly glance his way, whenever a new thing crops up.

The doctor has given him medicine to take with them on their journey across the sea, cremes and balms that he could smear onto the boy’s itches and fluids he could give him whenever the pain wracking his body becomes too much.

Drawing in a breath, he reminds himself to use them sparingly, until they arrive on Drum.

The winter island’s two weeks’ travel time away from Logue Town – on a good day’s journey.

Should they be hit with random storms or encounter other such hindrances – pirates come to mind, as ironic as the thought is to him, they’re no less dangerous to come across for a civilian ship than they are for fellow pirates or marines –, their medicine could run out too soon. With that threat hanging over his head, he weighs every single use carefully, and, for the time being, deems it safer to let the cough run its course and have the boy be set up with blankets and tea, instead of using the medicine on him.

Worst case scenario, it could take them up to four, or even as many as five weeks, to reach the shores of the winter island.

The red-nosed boy’s worried glances only raise guilt, within his mind, and it comes bubbling up with a vengeance, whenever they’re thrown at him.

What if he chose wrong? What if the medicine would keep the symptoms at bay for longer? Would Shanks feel better for longer if he had the medicine within his body?

Well, that last one is a given.

Still, is he right to not yet hand them over to the boy to take?

Is he doing the right thing, by not using them on the boy yet?

They only have so much medicine to go around, but what if he’s in the wrong, here?

Buggy – the man – is frowning more and more, these days.

Reverse Mountain is-

funnily, a mostly routine affair, apparently, for the crew steering the ship.

Naturally, Den’s already seen the mountain – how could he not have, if he’s got a godson in Logue Town? That one’s an adventurer, through and through, and, while Buggy thinks he may not have taken that route to go to Logue Town from the Grand Line, it’s clear he’s familiar with the workings of the streams there, and competently directs the crew and aids the navigator in steering them onto the right path.

It’s-

laughable, really.

Considering how much manpower, how much preparation in advance and how many hours spent with anxiety it’s taken for his crew and him to ever even so much as set foot on the route heading towards Reverse Mountain, the efficacy this crew is treating the handling of the sails, the directing of the sailors and the steering of the wheel with is nothing short of remarkable.

And, interestingly enough, quite ordinary in their eyes, it seems.

What sort of magic is this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it, dearest readers~? Leave a comment, if you'd like to - they keep making my day and inspiring the plot bunnies to boot!!! :D
> 
> >>He’s completely confounded at this latest turn of events. What a twist, eh? To say he didn’t expect that one coming would be fair.  
> I was SORELY tempted to write this. Then I didn’t. You’re welcome! XD
> 
> Also: WHOOP WHOOP! With this chapter, I've put a total of 352.000 words online on AO3!!!!! :D * _celebrating_ *
> 
> This chapter WILL get a re-read once I'm in a less tired state of mind. Later.


	13. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will he hold onto something in this storm, so as not to be blown over the railing and into the sea?
> 
> Will someone look out for him, keep an eye on the man, in their stead?
> 
> Will he survive this, will he be unharmed?
> 
> _Will he be safe?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, people! ~~For once I managed to cap it where I wanted to cap it~~ :D
> 
> Needless to say, I'm in high spirits. Soooooo what'll await y'all in this one?  
> Well, first of all, Reverse Mountain is a Thing. ^_^ And it's quite the breathtaking Thing, too, so enjoy, folks!  
> Then we'll have the regular angst scheduled, mixed with a breakdown or two. ~~hope you enjoy that, too~~  
>  Little plot happening, but that's all part and parcel of the 13th chapter, eh?
> 
> All in all, get yourselves a nice, soothing cuppa coffee or another beverage of your choice, grab some snacks and enjoy~!

_Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it._

~Terry Pratchett in _The Reaper Man_

* * *

There’s a giant waterfall. Going up.

That’s the thing they see from their cabin window, water moving upwards. They’ve gotten curious when the cabin tilted up on one side and the ship started shaking madly. Needless to say, they’re glued to the tiny porthole, no matter how much the ship sways to and fro, eyes wide and disbelieving of what they are seeing.

That’s… a rocky mountainside, that they’re travelling _up_ , somehow.

Words fail the two boys and for long, long moments, all they can do is hold on and hang onto the porthole’s even smaller ledge, fingers white.

The water’s hurrying upwards so fast, quite a bit of it gets lost and is thrown up in white-dark-blue sprays at the edge of what is a rocky formation alongside which their ship is carried up the mountain.

This is magic.

This is magic they’re witnessing, here.

How come this is the first time they’re seeing this now?

How come the ship they’ve taken to Logue Town has had such a quiet, peaceful journey?

And the one they’ve chosen to spend time on now is on such an adventurous path, with its wood creaking ominously.

There’s a storm outside, dark grey clouds alit by lightning every once in a while, rain pouring down against the ship’s side which is holding up admirably.

The boys’ breath is taken away every now and again, when the ship all of a sudden favours one side more or the other, the cabin tilting in response to the navigator’s will and the crew’s actions.

Buggy – the man – is somewhere on deck.

Tongue licking over his lip, the redhead hopes he’s alright.

His stomach rebels at the thought that their caretaker – who’s a Devil Fruit User – is out there, in this chaos.

The next thought that enters his brain is that, oh. Are the two boys the only ones who know about that little fact?

Will he hold onto something in this storm, so as not to be blown over the railing and into the sea?

Will someone look out for him, keep an eye on the man, in their stead?

Will he survive this, will he be unharmed?

_Will he be safe?_

They’re useless.

They’re two boys.

They can’t help out.

Not like he can, not aboard this ship, not without being directed on how to-

And no one will have the time to teach or direct them when the ship has already hit such a storm.

Shanks is under no illusions as to how helpless the two boys are, in this.

The storm’s roaring outside, drowning out any human voice on deck.

There’s the creaking of wood straining against the pressure outside.

Then there’s the two boys’ breaths, wedged against one another as they are to stare transfixed out the porthole.

His emotions are churning inside his guts.

And then,

there’s light.

The two boys both turn as one, dash outside their cabin and, moving ground underneath them notwithstanding, make a beeline for the door leading towards the deck.

They turn a corner, then there’s another one, then there’s three steps up and-

the door opens and-

_there’s light._

The ship’s broken through the clouds, the front of the ship’s just tilting down to, for one moment of relief, sail straight across-

and there’s blue, all around-

there’s blue, that’s-

the Grand Line, right ahead of them.

That’s the Grand Line, the pirates’ graveyard, right there.

They’re here.

The view steals their breath away.

Crowded as they are in that doorway, the light shines right onto them.

And then-

There’s a shirt blocking their sight.

Beady eyes look down disapprovingly upon them, an eyebrow is raised.

The message is clear, Shanks gulps – and they nod in unison.

Slowly, they close the door. It clicks shut just as the ship tilts, again, into the opposite direction.

Buggy and Shanks stare at one another in a terrified sort of horror.

Their heart flutters.

And jumps as-

The ship falls down-

falls down a ravine-

falls down a waterfall that easily surpasses any expectations they harboured prior to crossing into the Grand Line.

The ship is roaring, the wood is creaking and the two boys are shivering in the doorway, clinging to one another in lieu of anything tangible that they _could_ cling to, instead.

Good thing that the door is made to open inwards.

This way, it holds their bodies – complainingly, admittedly, but it does – as gravity makes itself known to pull the two boys towards it.

Their breath comes in gasps, their hearts fluttering wildly against their ribcages as they stare into one another’s eyes for one long moment, before their mouths pull up at the corners at the same time, their sparkling eyes conveying their exhilaration and excitement plainly for the other to see.

They’re _here_.

* * *

It’s not smooth sailing from there, far from it actually, but it works and that’s the most important thing.

Buggy’s kind of relieved the boys have closed the door once the ship’s front tilted downwards to freefall towards the Grand Line’s waters. That door should hold, it looked sturdy enough, and the two boys don’t weigh a lot, even put together.

_~~They’re still so scrawny it’s been constantly raising alarms in Buggy’s head, not just Ludy’s.~~ _

The doctor’s made a point to remind Buggy to feed them – _“and feed them well!”_ – and they’re _still_ barely there, skinny things, barely heavy enough to qualify for the lower end of what the blue-haired man knows should be the normal weight for their age, having been on the receiving end of a weight chart that’s been pushed in his face from the day that Ludy was aware of the two boys.

He’s more or less convinced that the two are honorary Ds, what with the way their metabolism _devours_ the energy packed into the food he gives them.

 _~~If Shanks is~~ _ ~~not _a D in all but name, he eats his hat-_~~

The sun is shining, glaring down at them, the wind battling against their faces barely enough to soften the rays, the sea water it brings with it a welcome change to the strong rain that’s been hitting them head-on earlier.

Yet, all of that is secondary.

That’s the Grand Line, there.

Buggy’s eyes are shining.

 _“Oi, pipsqueak! Pull that sail in_ tightly _, or not at all!”_

_His arms tied around the strong rope holding up the sail, he’s failing to do as he’s told. And then, a broad chest is at his back, huge paw-like hands engulfing his tiny, soft and weak ones and there’s a pull-_

_And the sail’s drawn in._

_The voice that speaks up from behind him is a comforting baritone, deep and rumbly, and there’s a red cape swirling at his feet, “Oh he’ll learn. No worries, there. You okay there, Buggy?”_

Overcome with the memory, he closes them briefly. A tear or two are easily hidden by the spray of water against his face.

A grounding gulp later, he’s back in the action, forcefully pulling at the rope in his hands.

* * *

There is no mountainous being at the other end of Reverse Mountain. Once they hit the waters of the Grand Line, they’re left to their own devices, peacefully sailing along.

Some of the crew remark upon the lighthouse, and Buggy does his best to remain unobtrusive, inconspicuously, just out of sight of the man housing inside its building, but they do not stop there.

There’s no need to, when they are already in possession of a log pose that they can follow.

It’s astoundingly easy to avoid risking a glance, to pretend he doesn’t know who houses inside the lighthouse year-round.

Only once they’re past and the tiny tower is barely visible any longer, does he venture to the back of the ship – slipping away when all the others are busy celebrating that they’ve made it, been given time off that quite a few now spend with their heads deep inside some drinks they got from the kitchen.

Standing at the railing, he looks on as the Red Line, and Reverse Mountain along with it, grow smaller by the minute.

There’s- a sense of loss, there.

A pang in his stomach, a glassiness to his eyes, and his hands from loose fists at his sides.

Crocus was-

The old doctor was-

That was the first doctor to ever really look them over and give them a proper medical check-up, back then. Even though they didn’t know that, at the time, even if they thought he was a quack for not knowing what was wrong with Captain-

_And Buggy had known-_

_~~Had known-~~ _

_~~Had~~ _ ~~felt _-_~~

A sigh is pressed out of his lungs. There’s- sadness, there, he knows, as he watches the waves that they leave behind, his eyes cast downwards so as not to look at the tiny speck that is the lighthouse any longer.

Nostalgia is welling up inside of himself. Although, what for?

Certainly not for the jeers, the mobbing and the callouts he’s been the victim of aboard the Oro Jackson. The tasteless mocking he can do without, thanks.

Reminiscing of his early days aboard the Oro hasn’t done him any good so far, what would he gain from trying that route?

No, he’d rather think of the Big Top – and his head lifts at the thought, the warmth of his crew, wisps of which he can feel, even now – and the cheers, the roaring and the fallout of yet another party on deck, whenever these idiots – _his idiots_ – had a tad too deep a look into a barrel filled with alcohol.

They’d be out celebrating whenever they could – the Acrobatic Fuwas doing their shenanigans to the left of his throne, the Funan Bros doing tightrope walking across a line that’s spanned from one end of the Big Top to the other and Richie and Mohji showing off what new trick they could to try and impress their captain.

Fools, the lot of them, to think, to _believe_ that they’d need to impress him of all people!

_When they’ve already done so long ago simply by sticking with him in the first place-_

_By sticking with him through thick and thin, his crew, his people, his family-_

_His family that he’s carefully picked out and surrounded himself with-_

On their own, his eyes close when he thinks that he’s lost that, now.

After all, he’s here, in the past – and so many years, decades, at that! –

and they’re not.

There’s no one venturing to the back of the ship, he can feel when he spreads out his haki briefly to make sure of that fact. With an eyeroll he silently remarks upon that, knowing that all of them will remain in the front of the ship, where the alcohol is. Where the celebration is.

Buggy lets himself take a step back, to lean against the wooden outer wall of the ship and-

slides down the wood, to come to a rest on the flooring, wooden planks below him.

His arms go around his knees and he has his head fall to rest against them, comfortable in the knowledge that no one will miss him, at least for a short amount of time.

However short it is, he’ll use it – and use it well.

The tears glide down his cheeks quietly.

Once, twice, his breath hitches.

No one will miss him, eh?

He’s on his own, now.

Buggy’s all alone.

_By himself._

_~~Alone~~ _ ~~.~~

* * *

The cough comes naturally, these days. Holding up his elbow, he coughs into it briefly, before moving his arm down again and heading on towards the deck. It’s become a rare occurrence when he doesn’t cough, but he doesn’t let that faze him much, at least not yet. The headache’s a constant ache, as well, and Shanks knows he’ll get worse before he gets better. Like it’s for almost any illness the two have been through so far, it’ll pass them by.

Hopefully soon.

Shanks has told Buggy that he’s just going to get something to drink for both of them – but on the way, he’s thought that he’d like to see the deck, once more, and makes a small detour.

The sea breeze is refreshing, for all that it carries salt in it and is freezing, when it lands on his face.

What catches his eye, lying abandoned on a random bench on deck, is an innocent little piece of cloth.

The innocent little piece of cloth has an interesting pattern to it, though, which is what gave him pause.

Huh, would it-?

Glancing left and right, he considers his options.

Nobody would miss it, would they?

If he borrowed it for a short while?

The pattern’s enticingly dull, he feels. Surely, no one’s attached to such a hat? And he did tell Buggy just this morning that he was kind of jealous that the younger boy had a hat on all the time and he didn’t… not in so many words ( _there may have been an insult to the hat’s colours thrown the blue-haired boy’s way_ ), but he did.

Quick as a bird, he snatches it up from the bench, looks left and right to make extra sure that no one’s around, and, with care, deposits it upon his head.

It… doesn’t fit. Of course it doesn’t, that’s an adult’s hat he’s wearing.

Contemplating what he could do to make it look better, he crosses his arms.

The hat’s barely staying on his head, loose as it is, but it does cover his head nicely.

Gaze drifting back to the bench when something keeps niggling at the back of his head, he startles.

Shanks hasn’t noticed the papers underneath the hat before – now that he did, he is curious and ambles closer for a better look.

Those are… numbers. Boring. They do look like important kind of documents, though, so Shanks wonders why they are lying out here, all alone and abandoned underneath a hat.

A door further to the right of him opens all of a sudden and, because of instincts honed over the course of his lifetime, he beats it, dashing around the corner and around the next – always looking ahead so as not to run into people before turning corners.

Short but eventful that his life has been so far, being caught with his hands in the proverbial cookie jar has never appealed to Shanks.

He now has papers in his hands, he remembers, when he lifts his hands up – the same hands that are still clutching said papers with a vice-like grip.

Great. Now how does he explain that to _Buggy_?

* * *

It’s been almost two weeks that they’ve spent aboard the Antagone by now.

Shanks is bedridden more often than not, and his friend is anxious.

The blue-haired boy spends most of his time in the cabin.

And Buggy is barely keeping it together as it is.

No need to add the Rogers to the mix-

_~~“What doesn’t kill you-“~~ _

That phrase. That arrogant throwaway of a phrase that’s been thrown at him _way back when_ -

Indignant, all of a sudden, he lets his frustration and old hurt overwhelm him. The boys are asleep, now is the perfect time to have a breakdown. Isn’t it?

( _ ~~If not now, then when?~~_ )

Carefully, he draws in a shuddering breath, having it fill up his body, his lungs inflating and then-

Lets it out in one big, albeit quiet, whoosh.

_What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, doesn’t it?_

He’d been a boy!

There hadn’t been- he hadn’t even been a teenager yet!

It hadn’t been him who’d decided to bring two kids with him on one, last, _adventure_!

Heavy breathing is all that can be heard for one, long moment, in the room.

 _But he’d paid for it_. And he hadn’t been alone in that.

 _~~And oh, there’s the wondering if Shanks survived- if he lives, still, is~~ _ ~~alive _and breathing and_ **safe**... _!_~~

Is he _still_ paying the toll?

Will it ever stop costing him?

How come it’s this expensive, for him?

_~~What’s the price been that Shanks had to pay?~~ _

( _ ~~Buggy’d have paid it off in a heartbeat, in his stead~~_ )

Even divided by two, it has had a steep price tag attached, their journey on the Oro Jackson.

On his part, Buggy hadn’t needed the adventure, truth be told. As a boy, he hadn’t ever gone searching for it, nor was he ever particularly inclined to follow the others in their endeavours at making life “more interesting”.

_~~“What doesn’t kill you makes you-“~~ _

_A man_. A hero. A something, in the eyes of other people.

Oh, how wrong they’d been, back then.

For it didn’t, after all.

Didn’t make him anything, at all.

Didn’t make him bigger, stronger, _worthy of their-_

A gasp falls from his lips and he forcefully stops his train of thought right there.

In its stead, his eyes fall shut on their own accord and he bows down on his bed – by himself on there, for once, rare as it is – at the same time that he remembers, within the safe confines of his own head and away from curious ears that may or may not be fully asleep yet.

Remembers a time when he’d still been part of something bigger, a whole _crew_ , even, back when he’d still let himself think of them as being there for him, just as much as they’d been there for Shanks.

_~~That hasn’t ever been the case, has it?~~ _

An “either or” situation, as he’s figured out way, _way_ after the fact.

Either him or Shanks. Either the useless clown-lookalike or the promising, talented, young swordsman.

The choice had been easy, for the Roger kaizoku, almost laughably so.

All that has left him with are the pieces that he’s still picking up.

The pieces from the fallout that followed, _~~the beheading-~~_

His stomach churns unpleasantly.

Oh if it only were that easy to resolve.

_~~“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!“~~ _

Buggy’s still got that phrase, that one sentence he’s thought of ever since he’s had the time to mull over his answer to that damnable utterance, in his head – a perfect comeback, only decades too late and with nary any satisfaction and all of the frustration combined, it’s running through his mind, again:

“ _I didn’t need to be stronger, I needed to be **safe**!_”

And oh, there’s the waterworks.

Some days, he wonders how he can still shed as many tears as he does.

Shouldn’t they make him numb at one point, indifferent to the pain he’s feeling?

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he can’t remember a moment when he’s felt more of that pain.

Gritting his teeth, he lets the tears fall as they will, landing haphazardly on top of the dusty fabric of his bedding.

Salt enters his mouth as some slide down to his lips and his body is shaking silently, quietly so as not to wake up his charges-

who are climbing up the bed, he senses next, when the bed dips down at one side, and his eyes open of their own accord, glassy, unfocused-

as there’s hands and arms going around him, two heads to both sides of his, they’re crouched down parallel to him, to both sides, cornering him, crowding him-

“It’s gonna be alright.” Buggy – the boy – tells him.

And he believes him.

“Whatever- whatever it is, it’s gonna be okay.” he says, gulping in the middle.

Again, isn’t that _his_ job? A lousy caretaker, he is, if all he does is make his boys _worry_ about him.

In response to their affection, he unfurls his hands from underneath his chest, sitting on his knees on the bed, curled up in the smallest position possible so that he mightn’t take up too much space – a habit that’s been drilled into him way back when, and lays them on top of the two younger bodies piled up besides him, one to his left, one to his right.

For one, long moment, they just are, they just exist, the three of them, side by side, crouched in a most uncomfortable position on a ramshackle bed that they’ve been given in exchange for Buggy working aboard the ship.

It’s about half a minute before Shanks is hacking up half a lung, it sounds like.

Both Buggys glance worriedly at their companion, sharing a poignant look before moving to get out of the crouch, to sit up on the bed proper, leaning against the wall, once more.

To be honest, this is the most comfortable position to spend time with the boys in, Buggy thinks quietly to himself within the confines of his own head.

And he already has the perfect distraction lined up for both boys to be utterly engrossed in and forget about their troubles, at least for the time being.

First thing he does is wait for the redhead to compose himself, though.

Once the boy does, he offers, “So, about that story you were wanting to hear earlier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at 77k words, people, 77K!!!!!! I'm like, flailing, here! =^_^=  
> (And this story has seen 4k hits by now, which, yeah, no less impressive, considering it's been up on AO3 for all of 7 months by now)
> 
> Short chapter today, folks! :D ~~for once~~  
>  Hope you liked it~ Leave a comment, if you're in the mood to and have the time to spare?


	14. Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man’s not quite at his wits’ end, but he’s getting there; what else could he do to make the journey more bearable for the boy? This is slowly but surely exhausting what little knowledge he has garnered while watching his own ship’s doctor work their magic.
> 
> Back on the Big Top.
> 
> ~~Oh, he misses-~~
> 
> No, he sighs, not the right moment for that.
> 
> He’s got to be present, stay present, for the boys’ sake, if for nobody else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good time period, dear readers, beverage-aficionados and Buggy-fans, wherever you may be at right now! :D  
> Hope you're doing well & that you've started into the year alright?
> 
> Here's what will await you in this next installment of my fic:  
> New mystery character, who dis?, Shanks getting the care he deserves, a bit of an insight into Buggy's "honest daily work routine" aboard the Anatalope, a brief look back to a lovable (and apparently reoccuring) OC aaaaaaaand a Boom.  
>   
> *grins*  
>   
> ✿♥‿♥✿  
> Yup, I figured out how to make things go Boom now, fear me. XD  
>   
> Needless to say, the next few chapters are going to be _interesting_... *rubs hands*
> 
>  ** _Warning for:_**  
>  **Brief mention of nausea, vomiting** (I tried not to go into detail there, so I hope it'll be fine; for those of you who would like to skip that part: it's the part after "She’ll be on her way home, soon." and ending before "The storm they’ve landed themselves in this time is a minor one")
> 
> (I'd rather warn too much than too little here, folks - hope y'all are doing alright & please let me know if I ought to put more tags up! I'm just one person and can miss things easily...)
> 
> One more warning (until the next chapter's out, I'll leave this here): cliffhanger ending. For now. XD
> 
> ... if at one point, you feel like screaming at Buggy for being stupid, I'd love if you let me know about it in a comment? XD  
>  ~~cause I definitely felt like that at one point that you _will_ recognise once you read this chapter~~

_Risk anything! Care no more for the opinion of others... Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth._

~Katherine Mansfield in _Journal of Katherine Mansfield_ ("Journal entry, 14 October 1922").

* * *

Her shoes clack as they hit the floor; every step announces her, these days, as she walks across polished flooring with no speck of dirt in sight and through empty halls devoid of life. The servants are sparsely positioned along the way, some hastening this way and that as they try to fulfil their duties on time.

She’s wearing a long dark purple dress with the proper stitching imbued in the cloth at strategic places. In fact, all of the clothes she’s wearing denote her as an emissary from Drum, someone to be treated with the utmost respect and above quite a few of the laws that concern the folk from the lower echelons of Goa Kingdom, and untouchable by a fair few that affect the people from High Town, even.

There is nowhere she does not carry her satchel with her, either: it is a big doctor’s bag containing anything she deems necessary and then some more. This time, it includes a dark cloak she can put over her shoulders to hide her status in case of an attack, a letter of recommendation as well as an important ticket that she’ll use to get off the island and aboard a ship that’ll bring her to Logue Town.

And from there, Drum’s not too far away any more.

She’ll be on her way home, soon.

* * *

He doesn’t explain “neither the hats nor the documents to Buggy”, is the obvious answer. In lieu of that, he keeps coughing up a lung and oh, there’s quite some dizziness he can feel creeping up on him every now and again. Funny how priorities change at the drop of a hat ( _ha!_ ).

At least to him, it’s clear that that illness of his is taking a turn for the worse and soon. Glancing worriedly at Buggy out of the corner of his eye when the other can’t see it, he gulps down the rest of his dinner, against his stomach’s increasing displeasure.

Shanks hasn’t felt hungry much, lately, and he knows that’s well out of character, for him.

But he persists. And he keeps eating.

And then, well.

Nature takes its course and he becomes reacquainted with his dinner sooner than anticipated.

Great. Doesn’t help that his friend’s the one catching him being sick and hanging over the toilet seat.

Their caretaker has a lot on his plate, he doesn’t need his deteriorating state to add to that, does he?

Shanks grimaces darkly. When a glass of clear, pure water is offered to him from the side, he takes it and gulps it down greedily.

A hand is carefully feeling his forehead, before the blue-haired boy determines he’s too unwell to walk on his own two legs and puts the redhead’s arm over his neck to drape Shanks’ body against his side and personally ensure he’ll get back to their cabin alright.

Ah dang. And here he’s been trying really hard, trying his best to not worry the younger boy too much…

* * *

The storm they’ve landed themselves in this time is a minor one, although Buggy wagers it’ll take them a few days at least to get around its centre and back on their route towards Drum – there’s a cyclone nearby, most likely, at the core of this natural phenomenon that they’ve all of a sudden entered and it’s a wonder they have managed to escape it so far.

The Grand Line and its pitfalls have rarely been on Buggy’s side until now, why would it be any differently just because he’s managed to land himself in the past?

Grimacing, he makes his way back to the cabin he shares with his young charges yet again.

The redhaired boy hasn’t gotten any better. In fact, if anything, the coughing and the fever have gotten worse in the last week they’ve spent on the sea, and he’s been bedridden more than he has been outside of bed lately.

The near-constant stress and pressure of the question if he’s doing the right thing by only providing the boy with small amounts of the medicine as of yet and if he’ll make it to Drum safe and sound are wearing on the ex-captain, to be honest, and he’s been finding himself taking short breaks during work more often lately.

It doesn’t help that Taincur’s inordinately understanding of the situation, that just makes Buggy feel more exhausted, frankly. Hopefully, he won’t have to keep this up for much longer.

As far as he can discern, they’re making good headway, although this storm will most likely blow them off course for a bit there. The crew is competent, so there’s that.

Buggy hasn’t yet met all of them – he’s been given his chores early on and the captain or the vice-captain usually end up pairing up similarly equipped people for the same tasks – but he nonetheless gets the feeling that they’ve been lucky to get such well-organised and reliable shipmates to share the journey with.

That’s not something to be taken for granted, he knows.

It’s weird though.

Something’s been nagging at the back of his mind, almost like an itch.

A strange kind of feeling has settled in his stomach, almost like there is something off, something… wrong, somehow, with the crew in the hands of which he’s put his and his charges’ lives. That’s unsettling, to say the least, but there’s not much to be done about it at this point, is there? They have to trust that the others’ll have their backs, there’s no two ways about it.

There’s no sense in going back on that trust they’ve extended towards the crew now, not when they’re as close to Drum as Buggy thinks they are. There was, what, one island in-between Drum and the Twin Capes in his timeline? Two? Buggy can’t remember, but they’re almost two thirds of the way there, he supposes.

Getting back to the cabin just in time for him to see the blue-haired boy exchange the old, hopefully fever-reducing cool cloth on the forehead for a new one. Good.

That might help a little bit, at least in getting the fever down to more manageable levels. Buggy gets some more rags out of the little bag he’s accumulated them in – holey, the lot of them, to be thrown away as soon as possible, but still useful for little things like getting a ten-year-old’s temperature to obtain less disquieting heights.

Dousing one of them in the water from the tiny basin that’s been set aside on the floor next to the boy’s bed, he puts it behind the redhead’s neck, readying another one to cover his wrists, as well.

The man’s not quite at his wits’ end, but he’s getting there; what else could he do to make the journey more bearable for the boy? This is slowly but surely exhausting what little knowledge he has garnered while watching his own ship’s doctor work their magic.

Back on the Big Top.

~~Oh, he misses-~~

No, he sighs, not the right moment for that.

He’s got to be present, stay present, for the boys’ sake, if for nobody else.

Glancing at his younger self’s face, he wonders if those bags underneath the boy’s eyes have always existed or if they have only appeared once they’ve boarded the ship? Nodding to the blue-haired boy quietly, he hopes to convey that the other’s free to do what he’d like to do, for the next hour, at least.

They’ve got a bit of a rotation going, these days – whatever good it’ll do, with the redhead out of commission, but it gives both Buggys some peace of mind, to know that someone’s always at Shanks’ side, should the boy wake up or have a nightmare befall him. Instead of the walk across the ship that Buggy supposed their youngest would opt to go on, to catch some fresh air if nothing else, the boy climbs up the ladder of the bed and lays down in the upper cot.

That’s… concerning.

Has he stayed up to watch over Shanks at night lately?

Nothing much to be done about that, for now, though, Buggy thinks.

They have to hold out – just until they make it to Drum.

Then, they’ll be able to catch their breaths.

And get the redhead the proper medicine.

The cure to the illness he’s got.

And a bit of a breather, too, while they’re at it.

It’d do them some good, Buggy thinks to himself, to have other people watching over the boys for once.

(He already knows that June will at least offer to help)

Dalton might be a good playmate for the two, on top of that.

They’ll see about getting there, first of all.

In the meantime, they'll do their best.

* * *

It’s Buggy’s turn to check the cargo hold and see to it that everything’s safely tied down. The storm is still raging around their ship, although they may have evaded the worst of it, by now. Up and down, the ship’s sides go, with Buggy expertly moving alongside the ropes hanging conveniently at head-height, leading the way down to where all the ship’s crates and merchandise is located.

There’s not a lot to see down there, so he’s brought a light with him – a lamp with a lit candle inside of a small glass dome so the light can permeate the darkest corner and be pointedly shone on a particular spot somewhere, even. Taincur’s coming with him – the two of them share chores for the most part, so that’s not an unusual occurrence to take place.

The staircase leading down is narrow and Buggy makes sure not to slip, taking careful steps down. It’s a tedious chore, is what it is, but Buggy can’t complain.

~~When he’s got his own ship and crew, he can-~~

Shaking his head to get the daydreams out of it, he ambles to the right-hand side, motioning for Taincur to walk to the left. Best to check both sides – this way they’ll be done faster, too.

There’s nothing wrong or badly anchored for the first part of his way. Only once he turns a corner at the far back does he see something that’s not quite right.

There’s a small bit of… something… a _heap_ of…. white powder. Salt? Pouring out of a bigger sack onto the floor. On that sack there’s four more sacks stacked one upon the other. Gravity as well as the weight of the other sacks are obviously not helping in keeping the salt in that sack. Buggy calls for Taincur to join him, trying to figure out how to minimise the problem.

That could be some of the valuable merchandise the ship’s carrying towards an island further than Drum or it’s some simple kitchen salt, Buggy’s not sure. From experience, he knows not to lick it to determine its properties that way – he’s poisoned himself at least once that way and has no intention of doing that again anytime soon. Glancing around, he notices a tiny hand-sized bag that seems empty, sitting against the nearby corner. Upon further investigation, he is proven right when, once he picks it up and shakes it, nothing comes out. That should do.

Swiftly, he grabs some of the salty powder with his hand and puts it into the bag.

Meanwhile, Taincur comes around the corner to where he’s kneeling, humming. “Hmmm, the higher-ups are not gonna like that.” he says with a frown that’s rather unhelpful in Buggy’s humble opinion and he makes his displeasure known with an eyeroll that’s well-deserved by now.

“Who is best to talk to about this?” Buggy asks his crewmate, swallowing down the first comment that’s coming into his head at the other’s comment. Taincur’s been longer on the crew than him, he’d know better than Buggy who to notify about such a relatively speaking less significant problem on board of this ship. Worst comes to worst, Buggy would simply tell the vice-captain and go from there.

“Dunno. For now, though… you any good at sewing?” Taincur asks, out of the blue.

Buggy blinks, then cautiously nods, an idea forming in his mind about what the other wants him to do. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Well,” the other man sighs, “For now, we’ll need to get that sack closed, right? If you can sew, can you sew that closed?” he motions with his hand broadly in the direction of the partly damaged sack and Buggy considers the request. With a spool of sturdy thread and a needle? Yeah, he could sew that closed.

Looking back up at his colleague, he nods an affirmative, “I don’t have the materials, though.” he admits.

Taincur nods, as if he’s already expected for Buggy to say something the like, and takes the lamp from his hands. “Careful with that”, he warns the red-nosed man, nodding to the sign on the other sacks innocently lying on top of the leaking one. There’s a clearly spelled-out “flammable!” written all over them, warning anyone handling them that an open flame or fire is to be avoided at all costs.

Huh. Flammable salt, then. Strange, but okay.

Next, Taincur pats his jacket, somewhere in his pockets finding a spool of thread that looks sturdy enough to Buggy’s eyes as well as something that can be used as a crude needle. Not anything that Buggy favours on a good day, but it’s better than nothing, and he sets to work the hole closed.

An undeterminable time later, he’s done with that and puts the excess of salt that’s still outside of the sack into the bag he’s been putting the handful of salt in before. Later on, he can bring that to the vice-captain or, failing that, the captain himself, and tell him about the unexpected leakage.

In the meantime, the hand-sized bag can be added to his belt. Making a mental note to get rid of that extra weight as soon as possible, the two finish their inspection of the cargo hold and head back up again.

It’s a good thing that he’s the only one doing chores aboard this ship in exchange for the three of them getting free room and board. The two boys in his charge most likely wouldn’t have known what to do about the sack at all, never mind them trying to sew it closed.

That talent of his has come in handy more than once already – what with him being in the habit of using his clothes until they fall apart, more often than not. For the two boys in his care? They’ve more than once had to have a hole sewn shut by him back on the farm. Easier not to bother Ludy when there’s something he can do about those particular problems.

He wonders how they’re faring, back at the farm, now that their employees are gone?

Have they sold it already and moved closer to Ludy’s doctor’s office in town?

* * *

Indeed, Buggy is not far off the mark with his guesses, because at this very moment, Ludy is studying the papers concerning the transaction of the farm’s ownership in her doctor’s office in Logue Town and is marginally unsettled by the latest revelations that she’s been told by her friends.

Drum has changed, eh?

Oh, Buggy will know soon enough, she thinks to herself, dimly aware of how much time has already passed them by since the three of her former employees have left her care.

Nervously, her hands drum against the edge of her table, the sound mildly calming her thoughts.

She’s keeping her fingers crossed for them to make it to Drum on time, but…. Well. Since she hasn’t heard anything from either June or Buggy himself as of yet, she can’t help but be worried.

It’s almost been four weeks by now, hasn’t it? Since the diagnosis?

They’re running out of time, and fast.

Ludy starts tapping her foot against the floor irritably, her eyes not taking in the lines of text at all.

Then, the door to her office opens and she raises her head, a snippy remark on her lips already to chase out however dares disturb her right then, before she truly recognises who it is that has opened it.

The remark dies a pitiful death in her throat and, instead, her whole face lights up.

“Maara! Long time no see!” she exclaims with a grin, quickly standing up and rounding her desk in order to better be able to engulf the other woman in a hug.

* * *

The little bag is still there when Buggy next takes his break, stuck to his belt and a small weight against his hip, but he’s got to make a choice here and it’s not an easy choice at all: go to the captain and tell him about the (now fixed) leak in the cargo hold that’s most likely been caused by some rats aboard the ship, or hold off until a better time and be with Shanks and Buggy, for now?

… in the end, the choice is not really a choice at all.

Should the captain complain, he’ll bear with it, it’s not like the salt’s going anywhere, when it’s on his person and what with the storm raging outside? It’s probably better he doesn’t brave the walk outside along the railing towards the navigation room. There’s no telling how much salt would get lost if it got wet and Buggy can do without getting wet himself.

Thus, his feet bring him back to the cabin and before he knows it, he’s in front of the redhaired boy’s bed again.

Perspiration has gathered on the boy’s forehead and Buggy exchanges a simple nod with Shanks' younger self-appointed younger blue-haired caretaker, then takes up his position at the side of the ill boy to wipe off some of the sweat as the youngest of the three goes up into his bunk for a quick nap.

It’s quickly becoming a bit of a routine, for the two, he remarks idly, bringing the bag out to study the salt under the better lighting conditions that the cabin provides.

Well. The substance certainly reacts to light like he’d expect any salt to. The vigil at the bed isn’t incredibly stimulating, from an intellectual point, seeing how Shanks ought not to be expected to wake up for at least another one or two hours, from what he’s been told by Buggy.

So the clown captain feels safe and allowed to dabble a bit – with half an eye on the boy, naturally.

It’s been a while, since he last got to experiment on something and, well. Normal kitchen salt should be harmless enough to get back into the habit of employing chemical engineering techniques for gain. To be fair, he’s gotten a bit rusty, though that shouldn’t keep him from obtaining some interesting results in the process and no one ever weighed how much of the salt has been “lost", did they?

As it is, Buggy doesn’t feel the need to make the captain aware of his tinkering before he does it.

After all, it’s simple salt, right?

There shouldn’t be anything that results from this that’d make anyone look twice at what he’s doing.

Nodding to himself to affirm his own reasoning in his head, he sets his hands to the task.

First things first, is it water-soluble?

For this test, he grabs a forgotten cup from the little table, obviously having been snagged from the mess hall at some point and not yet been returned and fills it with some water from the basin, uncaring if said water might be contaminated with whatever, for now. Then, he pours some of the salt in, a little handful of it, just enough to be seen from above against the dark interior of the cup.

Next, he swirls it and puts it onto the table to let it stand there for a bit. In the meantime, he turns back to tend to his sweating young charge, towelling off some of the excess fluid that keeps gathering above the redhead's brow.

Biting his lower lip lightly, he wishes he could do more, take away the pain, siphon it off of the boy somehow, be _more useful_ than he is.

None of the chores he’s doing, none of the tasks he’s fulfilling, none of the work he’s putting up with has anything to do with directly helping the boy and Buggy _aches_ with the need to-

To be closer,

To _do more_ ,

To _help_ -!

A sigh rumbles through his body, being let out silently so as not to wake the blue-haired boy in the top bunk.

There’s nothing to be gained from what-ifs.

And he’s already doing way more than he thinks he is, most probably.

Gulping down any more of that bubbling, roiling little bout of despair that’s threatening to burst forth – not all that much longer, he knows, and the cure will be within reach –, he looks back over at the cup, taking it up with one hand and swirling its content around some more, before he glances inside.

The result from this little test is as expected: the salt is, indeed, water-soluble and not a lot from what he’s poured in earlier is left inside the water any more.

Kitchen salt, eh? How boring.

Yet, Buggy knows how valuable getting back into a hobby by doing small steps into it again is.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, he’s been reassembling himself – the him that’s been _he_ all that time ago, before his incarceration, before the grandeur and the terror of the Grand Line that’s been thrown into all their faces, before, when he’s been Buggy the Clown, small-time Pirate Captain of a mostly harmless East Blue crew on a Water 7 ship called the Big Top, surrounded by his fans and his crazies and the lion-

A pang in his chest reminds him of where he is, now, and he _shakes_ – shakes his head at having drifted off like that.

This is. Peaceful. Calm. Something he’s needed for a while now.

It’s a tense sort of waiting game he’s playing, but Buggy’s patient.

Refocusing on the task at hand, he continues what he’s been doing.

With a quiet frown, he contemplates what the general next step in the process is?

Ah, yes. Spotting a candle to the side of the table, he nods to himself. Fire.

How flammable is normal kitchen salt supposed to be, again?

A niggling worry prodding at his brain from some memory that he’s forgetting something, something important, is quickly shoved to the side, for now. Can’t be too important if he can’t exactly remember what it is at this moment, right?

Another memory is floating through his brain of having tested exactly that property – the flammability of some type of salt – out once, quite some time ago.

It shouldn’t wake Shanks, in any case, from what he gathers from that memory.

Now, how to best go about testing that…

* * *

“Your results have come back. You are sure about this?” the doctor asks the man, slouching back in his seat a bit, a clipboard in his right hand and the left thrown over his chair’s arm.

He gets a grateful smile in return for his efforts, before the man’s moustache lifts a little at the side in a lopsided smirk, “I’m sure, Dr. Deron.”

A brief pause, then, “We’ve gone through this often enough, don’t you think? You’ve got to be tired of me, too, by now.”

The doctor lets out a sigh, long-since used to his most troublesome patient’s macabre sort of humour and rubs the bridge of his nose in barely-hidden frustration.

For five years, he and his colleagues have looked into this. For five long years, he’s poured over any and every medical journal that even so much as mentions some of the symptoms and disease patterns close to what this man is exhibiting and-

It’s a failure, in his eyes.

The last thing left to do was give him a clean bill of health concerning everything else and he is free to go, to leave, on that last journey of his that he keeps fantasizing about.

With that mental health specialist’s help, who Dr. Deron has immediately reached out to once he heard that they would be visiting the island on a random stopover, he’s got everything together to dismiss his patient from his care, for the last – and possibly, the final – time.

As a doctor, he shouldn’t be this invested, but the man’s a friend’s family friend and-

He’s low-key hoped they could find _something_ , at least, some sort of hope to give the man.

To give his friend, in return for everything he’s done for the doctor thus far.

But alas, they’ve had no such luck.

The only thing he has been able to provide the man with is the recommendation of a competent doctor’s address on the other side of the entrance to the Grand Line and Deron’s halfway hoping the man lets the foolish idea go, but – he’s come to know his patient well, by now and if anything, it’ll hopefully keep the man alive and from dying before he’s fulfilled his idiot dream.

One can hope, still.

“This is it, then?” he asks.

The man’s already stood up and turned his side to the good doctor, smirking down at where he’s sprawling – he doesn’t care, this is not your usual patient, this is a friend’s friend and this whole damnable dead-end situation has had decorum fly out the window from the get-go – and saying with confidence that the doctor finds impressive for no other reason than that the man’s still standing tall in front of him,

“This is it.”

* * *

“ _Boom!_ ” the explosion blinds Buggy for a second, before he lets his haki spread out wide in the next, reassuring himself that no one’s gotten hurt in the blast and-

It’s the salt.

The salt’s fault.

The salt that’s not normal kitchen salt, at all.

The salt that’s somehow turned out to have _explosive_ properties, of all things to-

His heartbeat is racing in his ears and his breath is coming in gasps, adrenaline shooting through him at his body’s perception of a threat in his immediate vicinity.

There’s a small black cloud that’s slowly dissipating in the air and-

Quickly, he stands up, blows out the candle on the desk and opens the window.

There are _children_ in this cabin with him, ten-year-olds who do not need to have trouble breathing on top of everything else.

When he turns back around, he is met with the wide-eyed stare of a blue-haired kid looking down at him from on top of the upper bunk and demanding to know, “What the _hell_ was that?” in a whispery breath.

Buggy forcefully regulates his breathing down to manageable levels again before- “ _Boom!_ ” a distant noise that enters the cabin through the window raises his hackles and makes him aware of something more going on outside of their little bubble of a cabin aboard a ship that’s-

The ex-captain’s mind is whirring, connecting that second “Boom” to a familiar sound, to one he’s heard multiple times before, long before, in another time, on another ship-

He’s breathing in deeply, consciously slows his breathing patterns down to acceptable levels, still looking up at the boy, but unseeing, seeing a different reality, another time-

A minute or two pass the two red-nosed individuals by in silence before, expectedly, another “ _Boom!_ ” sounds outside, followed by a few heavy knocks at their cabin door.

Both still wide-eyed, they swivel their head towards the door in unison.

“Buggy? BUGGY! C’mon! Answer if you’re in there!” it’s Taincur and- that is far less reassuring than it would have been on a normal day.

His voice is scratchy at first, but it comes out strong after the initial fumbling, “Wh-What is it?” Buggy shouts back, gaining some sort of equilibrium with every moment that passes.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard yet? We’re under attack! C’mon, we’re needed on deck!” Taincur bellows, before obviously leaving for somewhere else.

“Coming!” Buggy manages to get out, throwing a glance at his charge up on the bunk bed above Shanks’.

Looking down next, he notices that Shanks hasn’t even stirred yet, and that there has been barely any acknowledgement of the earlier explosion, too.

Shoving the worry for the young redhead to the farthest confines of his mind for now, he motions for Buggy to come down and tend to Shanks in his stead – he’s heading to the basin first, to wash off at least a bit from the black residue that he can feel sticking to his face from the earlier, smaller explosion in their cabin. No need to make anyone aware of what he’s been doing – or suspicious about it. Better to hide his findings for the time being.

Bad enough that they are under attack.

This is a merchant’s ship – marines ought not to attack those; conclusion: pirates, it’s got to be.

Buggy takes the bag on his hip and presses it into the young boy’s hand once he’s cleared the ladder.

“Keep that safe! And keep it away from open fire!” he orders the boy, probably looking a little mad, judging from the boy’s facial expression, but he gets a cautious nod in return and is satisfied with that.

Then, he heads out the door in a hurry, looking to where he can be of the most use to his current crew and hoping that he won’t have to enter the fray, should the pirates decide to board their ship.

The Devil Fruit he’s eaten may keep him safe from knife or sword wounds or anything else similarly stabby aimed at him, but he’s not at all fond of having to spread his body into multiple parts just to escape more major injuries.

And he’s not looking forward to seeing gunfire in the fights, either.

Hoping against hope that they’ll manage to defeat the pirates before it can come to that, he quickly scales the stairs up to the deck.

Hope dies last, isn’t that how the saying goes?

* * *

Hope dies last, but it helps being prepared – at least mentally – for the confrontation, Buggy figures out soon enough, when the sword he’s been handed upon arriving on deck is clashing and clanging against his opponent’s.

The Flubwall Pirates, really?

Someone has taken a pirate crew naming class and failed it, failed it _badly_ at that.

He can barely hold in his grimace whenever something along the lines of the amateur pirate crew’s name gets thrown about in the air above the fighting that’s taken over both ships by now.

His crew is – admirably and surprisingly faring better than expected – holding their own quite well against these small-time criminals. They’re good with swords and some are good with muskets on top of that.

Everybody sticks to what they’re good at, Buggy soon notices – and is relieved.

This way, they stand a bit of a chance, at least, with nobody trying to play the hero or somesuch nonsense.

Sensible folk, that, he ought to ask for their names again when things have quietened down a bit more, he thinks to himself and makes a mental note to do just that later.

At this very point in time, a sword comes down over his head, aiming to part him in half and he parries it, insultingly more easily than he would’ve expected from a pirate crew making it this far.

This is the Grand Line, after all.

Are these supposed to be real pirates?

Don’t make him laugh!

A movement to his left makes him aware of someone sneaking to the backside of their ship, just around the corner to where he’s seen Taincur move earlier in the fight.

Thinking his colleague could use a little help, Buggy turns and goes to make sure he’s not overwhelmed by his foes yet, sneaking up behind the pirate he can see trying for a blow at the man’s unprotected back.

Not an ounce of honour to be found in this pirate crew.

Buggy grimaces, as he swipes the man’s feet out from underneath him with his severed left hand that he’s let float towards the pair of limbs almost absent-mindedly.

Reattaching it quickly to his wrist, he holds his sword with both hands as he senses an opponent try a sneak attack at his own back from behind Buggy and practically flies to turn around and deflect the blow, leaving his feet on the floor facing the other direction as he does so.

No way is anyone sneaking up on _him_ , today, he thinks, letting a glimmer of the future-past pirate captain enter his eyes.

The clown captain’s not at all useless in a fight, hasn’t ever been that – well, up until a certain rubberman came around, that is, but that’s an outlier and should not have been counted, truth be told.

Indeed, he thinks, pushing back at the pirate in front of him with his own sword and tripping the other that’s now coming at _him_ instead of Taincur from behind with the feet that he’s left behind facing the other direction earlier, he can be counted on to be quite the creative fighter, sometimes.

The man trips and, tumbling over the railing, the man lands in the water with a satisfying _splash_.

The clown makes certain to reattach his feet, before anyone notices what exactly has tripped the pirate up like that as to make him plunge overboard in the fall.

They’re fighting in-between the railing and the wall to the navigation room at the moment, a piece of space that’s on the upper deck.

As such, Buggy has no idea how things are going on the main deck – where the mast is located and the whole space is more of an open floor plan than anything providing any sort of useful cover – and only an inkling whenever he tries to judge how the tide’s flowing via his haki.

He’d rather not, though.

Frankly, he’s had enough of auras dying out on his watch, life forces blinking out in the instant it takes for him to take a breath, so he keeps his haki wrapped rather tightly around his own person and hopes for the best.

Optimism hasn’t led him astray much yet, he thinks with a heavy dose of irony to himself, why not try it out while he’s for once fighting for his own life again?

Parrying the next hit from the foe opposite of him again, he glimpses a revolver that’s being drawn with the man’s other hand that he’s – oh, wow, _very subtly_ – moved behind his back and, on a whim, throws his foot, the right one, the one that’s not yet seen much action other than helping trip the other pirate up and thus is itching for a fight, just as he thinks he himself has been, considering how calmly he’s taking things in stride at this moment, in-between the man’s legs, only to backtrack, and-

Crunch down on the man’s left foot with the heel of his shoe, hard.

His high heels serve to make the experience a tad more painful than it probably would have been had he not worn slightly elevated shoes, but that’s what the pirate reaps, for daring to attack a clown captain.

Buggy hasn’t been the manager of a circus crew for nothing and he’s got his own eccentricities and peculiarities – which, admittedly, make for rather interesting fights, for the most part.

_~~Stupid rubberman strawhatted idiot rookie captain going for low blows. Not fair, that!~~ _

As it is, the pistol clatters to the ground as the man clutches his foot – Buggy hiding his own severed one right behind the man and standing with it on the pistol so that it won’t be picked up by anybody else or slides somewhere else on the deck where it could be picked up by either his ship’s crewmates or one of the pirates.

Buggy’d rather not chance that.

Raising an eyebrow, he looks down on the man, asking, “You had enough, yet?”

No answer is forthcoming, so Buggy leaves him to sort out his pain, for the time being and turns around to Taincur-

In retrospect, that really has been a stupid move, on his part, turning his back on his foe – even if he thinks he can handle anything thrown at him by said foe who’s already hurt, that should’ve been no reason at all to drop his guard like that.

The clown doesn’t even get to ask Taincur the question he’s formulated in his head while turning, before-

He can feel a grip, two arms, tightly around his abdomen and, the man that’s been clutching his foot and whining loudly like a pitiful dog shortly before is using his momentum to throw the two of them over the railing.

There’s not a thought going through his head at the action, his eyes are popping out at the sea water coming closer and closer, threateningly-

Intimidatingly-

Terrifyingly-

And his foot is-

The foot with the shoe is still-

Up above, on deck, with the heeled shoe, where-

**_Splash!_ **

With barely a break for taking in as much air as he could before they nosedive through the surface of the water, he’s surrounded.

On all sides.

By sea water.

Blue, blue ocean water on all sides.

And water’s closing the break they’ve made behind them, filling up the void with a frightening speed.

Eyes wide, he notices the weight kicking away from him, kicking him down as it goes up, to the surface and he _can’t move_ -

All at once, he realises what has happened.

And that he’s drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry?  
>  ~~It had to happen at _some point_ , right?  
> You were prepared for that, right?  
> Right?~~
> 
> Many thanks go to [ScarletSorceress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletSorceress/pseuds/ScarletSorceress) for helping with "What does one do with a fever?" :D Do check them out, they're a prolific writer on AO3 and their stories are awesome!
> 
> Weeeeeeeeeell.  
> Hope you liked this latest installment, dear readers?
> 
> Feel free to leave me a comment, I love those! (＾▽＾)

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned, dear readers: extremely irregular updates for this one. Hope you liked it and that my Buggy isn't too much OOC... let me know if you think he requires major tweaking or not, ne? :D
> 
> Quick clarification: this WIP is in first draft stage. Mistakes will be made and plenty of them, most probably. I just want to get it out all at once - I can always look it over and correct things later on, I just want to FINISH one WIP of mine already, for heaven's sake.
> 
> So, yes.
> 
> Uhm.
> 
> *coughs awkwardly*
> 
> Hope you don't mind the mistakes too much in the interim?
> 
> Leave a comment, if you're in the mood and have the time for it, will ya?
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! Cheers!


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